Jay Puranik
Red Shark (A Psychological Thriller on Gamified
Suicide)
Life is a Game. So is Suicide.
First published by Jay Puranik 2020
Copyright © 2020 by Jay Puranik
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored or
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from the publisher. It is illegal to copy this book, post it to a website, or
distribute it by any other means without permission.
This novel is entirely a work of fiction. The names, characters and incidents
portrayed in it are the work of the author's imagination. Any resemblance to
actual persons, living or dead, events or localities is entirely coincidental.
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored,
or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical,
photocopying, recording, scanning, or otherwise without written permission
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Dedicated to dreams, ambitions, and aspirations.
Meaningless as they are, they keep us alive.
“There is absolutely no worse death curse
than the humdrum daily existence of the
living dead.”
Anthon St. Maarten
18. More Roommates
19. Cold Gaze
20. Real Account
21. Double-Edged
22. Bitter Beer
23. Twitching Fingers
24. Lucky Ones
25. Fatima’s Room
26. The Plunge
27. Survivor’s Guilt
28. Last Rendezvous
29. Dew Drops
30. Nobody Else
31. Let Go
32. Battle-Scarred
33. Who This?
34. Permanent Roommate
35. Going Live
36. The Limelight
37. In Flames
38. World Premiere
39. Welcome Back
40. But Why?
Foreword
This book may not be an easy read. It certainly wasn’t easy to write.
Suicide is a sensitive topic. While this book is loosely based on the Blue
Whale suicide challenge, it is still a work of imagination. For my research, I
sought and received invaluable inputs from a few brave individuals. Of
course, on the condition of anonymity. Understandably. One of them had
returned from the brink of suicide in his early twenties. Fortunately, he gave
life another chance and hasn’t looked back ever since. He’s easily one of the
most cheerful people I know. What’s strange is that his social media posts
were just as cheerful on the day he almost jumped off a terrace. We never
really know, do we?
Similar conversations with other survivors unearthed startling insights. A
few weaved their way into the events of this book. It’s haunting to know
how terribly long a suicidal person’s symptoms can go on for. Yet, most
often, nobody takes notice. Worryingly, very few can walk on the tightrope
of life, hover above death, and return unscathed. Most don’t last long
enough for help to arrive.
The numbers are staggering. A person commits suicide in India every forty
seconds. A student dies every hour. The number of attempted suicides is
growing.
Ever wondered why suicidal symptoms are inconspicuous? Are we not
looking around hard enough? We’re not paying enough attention to that
silent guy on the last bench. Maybe we should approach that aloof
colleague at work and get to know him better. What about that old
gentleman living alone upstairs? Wouldn’t hurt to invite him for coffee or
visit him with a box of cookies.
Sounds easy. But why aren’t we doing more of it? We have plenty of
reminders; the news and statistics tell the same story all the time. Someone
in India will take their life during the time you spend reading this page. By
the time you finish this book, many more will have met the same fate. It’s
not like we don’t know what’s happening.
Instead, we’re looking the other way. We’re becoming numb with every
tragic news bulletin of yet another student suicide. We need to proactively
stop the next person from becoming a victim. It could be someone around
you.
Disclaimer: Some settings in this book are based on my wonderful
memories at IIM Calcutta. However, the events in this book have no
connection with the IIMs, IITs, or any other institution. Nor does this book
reflect the crisis management approach of any real organization. The same
applies to administrative protocols, academic structure, campus life, and
placements.
Trigger Warning: This book contains fictionalized accounts of gamified
suicide. Not recommended for sensitive readers suffering from stress,
depression, or mental health issues. Discretion is advised.
1
Show Stopper
Friday, December 13th
The ambulance fishtailed on the asphalt. Its burly driver caught glimpses of
stunned students on the sidewalks. His vehicle flew past them toward the
auditorium. He thrust his foot on the brakes and the ambulance hobbled to a
screeching halt. A cloud of dust entered through the window as he rolled it
down, with the engine still roaring.
Outside, festive banners of red, magenta, and yellow danced in the
evening breeze. Hoisted only yesterday, they dangled from temporary
wooden beams. The fragrance of freshly mowed lawns and trimmed orchids
seasoned the air. It blended with the cries of nocturnal insects. The loudest
sounds came from a colony of insects, hidden out of sight. Their nests and
larvae cradled in the dark woodwork under the makeshift stage. Above, the
wobbly wooden structure stood erect at the auditorium’s main entrance.
The ambulance’s engine hissed while the driver pulled the gear into
neutral. An alert toe kept just enough pressure on the accelerator. The driver
stuck his head out of the window for a well-deserved respite from his
speedy drive.
The mood outside was colder than the night. The last squeals of tires
crushing gravel underneath hovered in the air. A suitable representation of
how this place crushed half a million dreams every year. The institute was
notorious for its annual list of rejected applications. The list brought much
pain to the students and their parents. A selected few went on to realize
their dreams of studying at the Indian Institute of Technology. But as
expected, the rejection list comprised over ninety-nine percent of all
applications.
The ambulance amidst the festive setup was as conspicuous as a
chimpanzee in a choir. Commemorative archways and fancy lights had been
selfie spots moments ago. Now, they were out of place. Just like the
uniformed paramedics pushing their way through the horde of youngsters.
Nobody expected this at Mood Magenta, IIT’s annual gala event. It was
Asia’s largest college cultural festival.
Gigantic speakers booming lounge music a moment ago were now as
quiet as graves. This was no time to play carnival music. Warm speakers
cooled away, standing testimony to the short-lived merriment. Confetti and
ribbons gave way to ominous colors. Flickering red lights shone above the
three police vans behind the ambulance. The ambulance had a melancholic
blue light of its own.
Music and laughter had given way to the sounds of emergency service
vehicles. A grim surprise entry, minutes after the opening ceremony of the
festival.
Neha Sharma, tall and lanky with freckles that looked like red ants on
pale cheese, turned toward the sounds. She pushed past a motley mass of
students as the three police vans pulled over on the sidewalk. Besides IIT’s
two thousand students, the event had attracted students from all over India.
The visitors had landed earlier in the day. Just in time to witness the
opening ceremony of Mood Magenta. Instead, they saw Neha’s best friend
fall to her death.
Neha’s hopes of a smooth end to her stint as the President of the
Students Council were over. Only three months remained of her final
semester of Mechanical Engineering. This was bad. It was beyond bad.
The Dean’s face showed it. Shekhar Nath, founder and the Dean of IIT,
was a balding man in his sixties. He had a stubby nose. Like a pug. His hair
was sparkling white with streaks of gray. Like a Siberian Husky. He
crouched beside the mangled mass of the girl who used to be Neha’s best
friend. Dean Shekhar’s wireless microphone rolled off the makeshift stage
with a gentle thud. It left behind an arc of the dead girl’s blood.
Neha barked orders into her cellphone as she cut between clamoring
students. Having darted to within inches from the horrific scene, she caught
her breath. It was much needed. Considering how she’d knocked the wind
out of boys twice her size. In a moment, she resumed elbowing and
knuckling her way forward to her dead friend. She didn’t have to try too
hard. Neha wore a look that nobody wanted to mess with. Driven by an
extreme sense of urgency, she didn’t need to display her Mood Magenta
organizer’s ID to elicit obedience from the stunned students.
“What’re you looking at?” Neha spat at a visiting student who had crept
up close to the body. He continued shooting a video on his phone. “Unless
you want that phone shoved up a very painful place, back off and delete the
video.”
Neha flung off her grey Mood Magenta sweatshirt. It was easier to
breathe. Soaked with sweat and looking several shades darker, her hoodie
fell at her feet. Her red t-shirt clung to her firm figure. Her long, auburn hair
fell loose over her shoulders. Somewhere in the tussle and commotion, her
hair-clips must have fallen off.
She stood like a statue as paramedics lifted her best friend. They placed
the corpse on a stretcher before rushing back to the ambulance. A firm hand
slammed the rear door shut. The ambulance sped away, followed by one of
the police vans. That was it. Moments ago was the last time she would ever
see Fatima Qureshi alive.
With her feet frozen, Neha’s mind slipped into a trance. In contrast, the
Dean returned to his senses. Sumit, another Students Council member,
offered him a bottle of water, with its cap already unscrewed. Dean Shekhar
nodded his gratitude, his face still petrified. He gulped down the water in
one go. After wiping his lips with the back of his hand, he caught his
breath.
Neha watched as he debriefed the police inspector. Warmth filled her
eyes. A salty tear ran across her lips. More tears welled until they gushed
like water from an overflowing dam. The sight of the Dean’s jet-black suit
and the inspector’s rumpled khaki uniform disappeared in a haze. Teary
eyes saw ripples in the scene, like waves crashing into rocks. More like
heatwaves from a volcano.
Neha’s knees wobbled and she eased herself to the ground. Her jeans
were soaking wet from perspiration as much as from the watered lawn.
Seated among a few others on the edge of the auditorium’s sidewalk, she
wiped her eyes. She took a long, questioning look at the terrace, six floors
above the auditorium’s entrance.
That terrifying moment returned. She knew it would never leave her. It
had imprinted a dark vision on her mind. No different than a fizzing, red-
hot seal as it leaves a mark on a bull’s backside.
In her mind, it was happening all over again. That shocking moment.
How Fatima stood on the ledge. She waited for the Dean’s announcement
declaring Mood Magenta was open. No later than his announcement a
boisterous cheer erupted. It was easy to miss it in the chaos. But Neha saw
it.
A sickening crash on the stage. Without a scream from the dying girl.
Fatima’s fingers quivered for a moment before surrendering her life in the
pool of blood. In an instant, the crowd gasped in unison. The spontaneity
and intensity could have triggered a hurricane elsewhere in the world.
Fatima did not fall by accident. No. Nor was she pushed. She fell with
precision and grim determination. A freefall from six floors above. With her
head pointed down. Her arms wrapped around her slender torso in a
conscious, deliberate grip. Her legs were as straight as arrows as she fell.
There was no intention to soften her landing. No doubt about it — she knew
what she was doing. And it worked.
Fatima snapped her neck when her head crashed onto the wooden
platform. It was no coincidence she landed mere inches from the Dean’s
feet. His microphone vibrated long after the crash. In the distance, speakers
echoed the last words from his inauguration speech.
Neha Sharma had processed all this in an instant. But her pain emerged
as tears only after the ambulance took Fatima away. She could do so now.
At the moment of crisis, Neha had donned her mantle of the President of the
Students’ Council. Despite the personal impact of this catastrophic crisis,
she led the efforts.
She had mobilized the event’s emergency response team. She had called
for an ambulance. She informed the police. Neha knew she did it all on
autopilot. Only when there was nothing more she could do, did she allow
herself to weep.
Unlike her instinct for action after Fatima jumped, the Dean’s response
had been to freeze. He had done no more than to crouch without a word on
his lips.
Yes, Neha had processed it all in an instant, but she knew it would take
more than a lifetime to make peace with it.
2
Non-Males
Friday, December 13th
Neha had visited the Dean’s office in the main academic block hundreds of
times in her four years at IIT. For a multitude of reasons. This one took the
top spot. She’d never felt so hopeless standing in the corridor outside his
cabin. Prof. Reema Badami stood by her side.
“Come in, Neha,” the Dean said. “Get her some water.” He turned to the
office boy, before looking at Neha again.
The police inspector stood and requested Prof. Badami to come over. He
whispered in her ear. Dean Shekhar offered Neha a seat on the creaky
wooden chair with an off-white cushion.
“I’m so sorry you had to see that, my dear,” he said. “Breathe slowly.
It’s going to be alright.”
“No, it won’t,” Neha stammered. “Fatima is dead.”
“We’re yet to hear from the doctors on that, Neha.” The police inspector
walked up and placed his hand gently on her shoulder. He pulled it off
immediately, reminding Neha how soggy her t-shirt was. He wiped his hand
on the side of his khakis. “I’m Inspector Kamal Das from IIT Police
Station.”
“I know, sir. I’ve been to your office many times for clearances for
many events. How can I help?” Neha looked lifelessly at the empty ceramic
coffee mug on the Dean’s desk as she took her seat.
“You’ve helped already through your presence of mind and swift calls
to the police.” Inspector Kamal pulled his chair closer, turned it to face
Neha, and sat. “It’s going to be a horrendous few days for the IIT student
community. The Dean says you, as Student Council President, are the best
person to keep their morale high. But, I’m sure you understand, we must
first close formalities. Trust me, even I hate policemen’s paperwork. But I
promise you’ll be back to doing what you do best for the student
community soon. We’re all trying to resume normalcy.”
“How will it ever be normal again, Inspector? It won’t — at least not for
Fatima. What you said confirms she’s dead. Anyway, I won’t let paperwork
get in the way of your investigation. Shall I give you my statement?”
“You don’t have to do it right away, Neha.” His face conveyed the exact
opposite. “Despite your demeanor, I understand you’re in shock. If you
prefer, come down to the station tomorrow and give me a detailed account
of what happened.”
“I’d rather do it right now.” Neha watched the office boy place a glass
in front of her and fill it to the brim with water.
“Take your time, Neha.” Prof. Reema Badami peered over her thick-
rimmed glasses. She was the head of the Mechanical Engineering
department. The years had taught her the best way to prolong youth was to
spend as much time as she could with students. No one stood in her way
when she volunteered to serve as the Chairperson of IIT’s Student Affairs
Committee. “We need you to be strong. Our students couldn’t have elected
a more able President. You need to shepherd them out of this trauma.”
“I’ll do my best, ma’am,” said Neha.
Neha heard a sharp tap on the wooden door and without waiting for
permission, Sumit barged in.
“I’m sorry to interrupt, sir,” Sumit said. “But I need your clearance on
the notices I’ve drafted for the online bulletin board.”
“Is it as we discussed?” the Dean asked.
“Yes.” Sumit read out from his phone. “Students and staff are advised
and explicitly prohibited from divulging any information about the accident
to third parties outside the IIT administration. These restrictions apply with
immediate effect and will extend for a period of six months after the
authorities complete their investigation. Circulating photos or videos of the
event will attract a stringent fine. And possible expulsion—”
“Approved. Publish it.” The Dean flourished his hand with impatience.
“What about our visiting students?”
“Sir, I spoke to the coordinators of each of the visiting colleges. I have
asked them to cascade the message—”
Prof. Reema frowned. “Cascade? Really, Sumit? By the time they’re
done playing Chinese whispers, do you know how many videos will leak
online? Imagine the rumors that’ll do the rounds on WhatsApp!”
“No, ma’am, the External Relations Cell has confiscated cellphones of
all bystanders. We will return the devices to their owners after sanitizing
them for audiovisual content.”
“Ma’am,” Neha interrupted Sumit. “We need to contact Fatima’s sister.
She’s got nobody else.”
“Yes, of course.” Prof. Reema looked at the clock on the wall.
Neha followed her gaze. It was almost midnight.
Prof. Reema bit her lips. “I’ll give her a call first thing in the morning.”
“Thank you, ma’am.” Neha turned to the inspector. “Yes, sir, I’m ready
to tell you whatever you want to know.”
Inspector Kamal cleared his throat. He did it again and continued a
moment too long, all the while staring at Sumit, who wouldn’t budge. He
turned to Neha with a grimace. “So what’s your hometown?”
“What does that have to do with anything?” Neha paused long enough
to realize Inspector Kamal didn’t want to dive right into the key questions.
She pursed her lips and answered. “Agra.”
“What do your parents do?”
Why does he care about that?
Neha rolled her eyes. “My father works for a bank in the United States.
My mother lives with him. I have no siblings.”
“Okay.” The Inspector pulled out a diary and flipped its pages lazily.
How can he behave like he doesn’t have a care in the world?
Neha sighed. Sumit arched his heels to peep into the Inspector’s diary.
Neha understood why the Inspector was hesitant to proceed.
It’ll take forever if this clown hangs around and gapes like that.
She looked at Sumit. “Don’t you have some phones to scan and return
before it turns into another bad PR affair?”
Sumit groaned and heaved himself out of the room.
Neha turned to the Inspector. “Yes, Inspector. Let’s get down to the
important things now.”
Inspector Kamal yawned as he looked at the clock. “Was Fatima
stressed about anything or under any kind of pressure?”
“This is IIT. It’s like a pressure cooker to get in here. But that’s only the
beginning.”
“So, tell me, what troubled Fatima the most? Academics? Placement
pressures? Was there a boy involved?”
“Quite the contrary. Fatima’s grades improved over the semesters.
Especially since our third year.”
“Interview pressure then?”
“Impossible. She didn’t even want to prepare for the placements.”
Prof. Reema raised an eyebrow. “But she uploaded her CV on the
Placements Portal last week.”
“I did it for her.” Neha’s tone rose with contempt. “She wasn’t
interested in getting a job. She wanted to study further. I said a job offer
wouldn’t hurt for her record.”
Inspector Kamal turned to the Dean. “Was someone bullying her? Has
the ragging scene gotten worse?”
“I’d say it’s more or less the same.” The Dean looked away. “But it’s
not physical bullying anymore. We suspended quite a few second-year
students who gave the freshers a hard time. But anyway, Fatima had no
seniors. Who would rag a final year student anyway?”
Prof. Reema raised a finger and opened her mouth to speak. Neha was
faster and beat her to it.
“Our ragging situation merits a review,” Neha said. “But it’s not as bad
as it seems. By the time students finish their first semester, they understand
it’s a part of engineering life. Almost everyone manages to adapt. Some
believe ragging develops stronger bonds with their seniors.”
“But of course, as an institute, we have a strict no ragging policy.” Prof.
Reema said the moment Neha paused to collect her thoughts.
Neha’s lips curled into a feeble smile. “It’s not a concern, sir. It’s almost
a harmless tradition now. Every year, after the first semester, second years
barge into their juniors’ rooms. Juniors, used to harmless ragging, expect
another ragging session and laugh it off. That’s when they get their first
hugs from their tormentors. Not to mention bottles of beer from their
seniors. It signals the end of ragging and a warm welcome to the IIT tribe.”
Neha looked at the despair on the Dean’s and Prof. Reema’s faces and knew
she didn’t need to elaborate. “Anyway, Fatima never faced bullying.”
“Hmmm.” Inspector Kamal scratched his chin. “So it’s a lover then.”
He raised an eyebrow and held himself from letting out an aha.
Neha scoffed. “She had no boyfriends. Despite the two of us being the
only non-males in final year Mechanical Engineering.”
“Non-males?” Inspector Kamal raised an eyebrow.
“You should see our gender ratio, particularly in the Mech department,”
Neha said. “We’re used to being called non-males.”
“Alright. Okay, tell me, how long did you know Fatima?”
“Over six years. Way back from the days of our IIT entrance exam prep.
It was a miracle her parents let her study at IIT. They were quite orthodox.
A week after her name appeared in IIT’s admissions list, her parents
introduced her to the boy they had chosen for her to marry. Her parents
wanted Fatima to get married the day she graduated.”
“You said she wanted to study further.” Inspector Kamal made copious
notes, much to Neha’s surprise. “Did her parents pressurize her to forgo
postgraduation and get married instead?”
“They probably would have, if they were still alive. Fatima’s parents
died when we were in our second year. She’s got only one living relative.
Her elder sister.”
“I see. Did Fatima exhibit any suicidal tendencies after her parents
passed away?”
“She was depressed for a while, I mean who wouldn’t be? But no, she
wasn’t someone who’d commit suicide.”
“So it’s something else, eh?” Inspector Kamal shot a glance at the Dean
and Prof. Reema. They nodded their heads in despair. The Inspector turned
to Neha again. “Is there anything else you’d like to tell me?”
“It will make your job harder. There’s no way Fatima would kill herself.
She’d been through a lot, but she was finally in a peaceful place. I hadn’t
seen her as outgoing and lively as she was in the last few months. Clearly
something was horribly wrong.”
“That’s strange. Did she indulge in any kind of self-harm? Any
instances of animal cruelty? Did she bully her juniors?”
“Never!” Despite the grim situation, Neha burst out into a short laugh.
“Those are literally the last three things I’d associate her with. And you’ve
already mentioned the fourth thing on that list — boys.”
Inspector Kamal scratched his stubble as he leaned back on his chair. He
craned his neck, and crunched his knuckles against it, raising his elbows to
the level of his ears.
“Shekhar,” he said and stared into the Dean’s eyes. “Have you heard of
the Red Shark challenge?”
Neha’s heart skipped a beat. She remembered Sumit had once
mentioned the Red Shark suicide game. It was during one of their early
Student Council meetings. Sumit habitually recorded every detail of
notorious PR disasters across premier engineering colleges. He devised
practical response protocols. He was the go-to man with action plans and
notes for the Student Council on how IIT could handle various PR crises. It
was his job as the Student Council’s External Relations Secretary.
One of the worst PR crisis had happened at Moscow University’s
engineering college. It was a year ago when Sumit spent a term at the
Moscow Institute of Computer Science (MICS) as an exchange student.
After returning, during a Student Council meeting, Sumit detailed the
nightmare MICS faced. A dozen students had committed suicide on
campus. Allegedly, it happened after participating in a suicide challenge.
“Do you think Fatima died while playing a suicide game?” Neha stood.
She placed a hand on Inspector Kamal’s shirt, surprising herself with her
spontaneity.
“Neha, you’re clearly not in the right frame of mind.” Dean Shekhar bit
his lips. “Kamal, don’t bother the girl with your theories. Can’t you see
she’s lost her best friend?”
“Oh, I didn’t mean to suggest it. I don’t know why I blabbered. This is
what late nights without alcohol does to me!”
“Inspector Kamal,” Prof. Reema said sternly. “This is India’s number
one engineering college. Students face all sorts of pressure here on a daily
basis. But that’s exactly why they’re the best engineering talent India
produces. Pressure converts a small fraction of coal into diamonds. The rest
burn as fuel. Not everyone can handle the pressure. All students at IIT have
a history of being toppers in high school and junior college. They’re the
best of the best among the rest. It’s difficult to cope here when you realize
you’re no longer the default topper. Only a select few can keep that up and
continue as toppers here at IIT. Do you think everyone here can get the best
jobs? When you put the best of the best together, the sad truth is most of
them feel average.”
“Fatima was not average,” Neha snapped. “And she didn’t care about
any of the jobs that would be on offer during the placement season.” She
turned to Inspector Kamal, “Are there any instances of the Red Shark game
in India?”
“No, Neha. Again, I’m sorry I brought it up.” Inspector Kamal avoided
eye contact with the Dean, who stared holes at him.
The Dean’s eyes twitched and he trembled. Prof. Reema squeezed his
hand.
“Neha,” Prof. Reema said. “You’ve had the most unfortunate evening.
On the inauguration night of Mood Magenta, no less!” She turned to the
inspector. “Inspector, suggest you let her go for now.” Without waiting for a
reply, she looked at Neha. “Please go to your room and get some rest.
Thanks for your valuable inputs. But now, leave the investigation to us. You
have a bigger responsibility to your peers. This shouldn’t rattle them and
affect their final semesters and placements. That’s what they elected you as
their President for.”
“I understand, ma’am,” Neha said. She knew Prof. Reema wasn’t the
type to ask so nicely a second time. She turned to the Dean who was still
furious at Inspector Kamal. “Please do call Fatima’s sister tomorrow. Break
the news to her gently. Fatima was all she had.”
“Don’t worry about it, Neha.” Dean Shekhar’s voice returned to normal.
As Neha walked out of the cabin, she rubbed her eyes. She thought she
saw a shadow whisk across the darkness along the sides of the corridor. She
was certain after hearing muffled footsteps. Further proof when a
mysterious figure ran down the stairs.
It has to be Sumit.
Neha knew the nosy boy had overheard the conversation. Being
informed, often more than necessary, was a key skillset for his job. He was
a great fit to be IIT’s External Relations secretary.
Taking a leaf out of his book, she pressed her back against the wall.
Fighting pain in her head, she heard snippets of the conversation going on
inside.
A sharp crack echoed in the corridor as the Dean smashed his fist on his
desk. “Kamal if you weren’t my friend, I’d be on a call with the Chief
Minister right now. You’d get transferred out of Mumbai before you took a
shit tomorrow morning.”
“Relax, I don’t know what I was thinking. Besides, this doesn’t look
like a Red Shark suicide.”
“All the more reason for you to have shut up! That girl thinks she’s the
ultimate custodian of my students! She’s one of them, but that doesn’t stop
her from meddling into the administration’s affairs. If only the faculty
members cared as much!”
“I understand, Shekar, relax. I’ll handle this. Just tell me what do you
want?”
“I’ll tell you what I don’t want: filth on IIT’s reputation. Make sure
nobody spreads disgusting rumors about a gamified suicide at IIT!”
“Especially with placements around the corner.” Prof. Reema’s voice
just about made it through to where Neha was listening.
As she descended the steps, she knew that sleep — like Fatima — was
going to be badly missed. She pulled out her phone and Googled the Red
Shark suicide game. Neha was no stranger to staying up all night to study.
But never before had she wanted to learn so much so fast about anything in
her life.
3
Dodging Paperwork
Saturday, December 14th
The first rays of sunrise broke in through the cracked window pane of the
waiting room. The effect lit up the morgue’s door, creating a golden bridge.
It was as if a pathway to heaven had appeared for the souls within.
It was futile. The bodies behind the door were long dead, some for as
long as two years, while still being unclaimed. Neha adjusted her borrowed
burqua’s veil to cover her entire face except for her eyes. The steel bench in
the dilapidated waiting room felt colder under her thin, black clothes.
A pungent stench filled the corridors of the morgue at Lokmanya Tilak
municipal hospital. It went along awfully well with the depressing feeling
lingering in the air.
Neha tapped her feet with impatience and looked at her watch every ten
seconds. She scowled at the bald, middle-aged clerk who couldn’t care less.
Maybe he would if he saw her face behind the burqa’s veil. But showing her
face would have defeated the purpose of her visit.
Neha stretched. The clerk reached into his pocket and produced a
mixture of tobacco and crushed betel nuts spread out over his palm. He
added a white paste — slaked lime — from a small plastic pouch. A minute
later, it was all mixed and formed a thick brown paste rolled into a small
ball at the center of his palm. He pinched it between his thumb and index
finger and pressed it between his lower lip and teeth.
Satisfied with his fix, he closed his eyes and dusted his hands. He
chewed with the indulgence of a cow on a green pasture. Reddish-brown
saliva trickled down the right side of his jaw from the gap left behind by a
missing tooth. With a pace that would put a sloth to shame, he half-
heartedly looked through a thick file. It contained forms the relatives had to
fill before claiming the bodies of their loved ones.
I wish he’d washed his hands! Not that I’m going to touch those forms
anyway.
From the clerk’s yawn, Neha couldn’t tell if he was at the end of a night
shift or only getting started for the day. In either case, she suspected the
dead bodies inside could hardly be more sluggish. Despite the grim setting,
Neha found herself giggling. She imagined the clerk could just as well sit
inside the morgue and blend in with the dead bodies. There was no way to
tell this guy was alive. Neha pursed her lips to hide her smile, only to
realize her veil had done it for her already.
“Please, sir,” Neha said. “Can’t the paperwork wait? I have come a long
way. She was the last of my family.”
“Madam.” He almost choked on a betel nut and coughed for a full
minute before continuing. “Even the dead have to obey protocol. These
things take time. What’s your name again?”
“Alisha Qureshi, sister of Fatima Qureshi.” Neha stood and walked
closer to the clerk’s workstation. “Can I at least see her once while you find
the forms? I’ll fill them up right away when you do.”
The clerk was either too tired or too sleepy or not sufficiently bothered
to protest. “Oh, why not. Let me check if anyone’s around.” He stretched
his wrinkled neck this way and that to ensure his superiors weren’t around.
There were two more obstacles in his way before he could open the
door for Neha to enter the room of dead bodies. Laziness and gravity. With
great effort, he lumbered out of his creaky, rusty steel chair.
Watching him, Neha thought of a zombie coming back to life. Her brief
moment of involuntary, sleep-deprived humor came to a crashing halt.
Unlike zombies and this lazyass clerk, Fatima would not rise again. The
haze returned to her eyes from last evening.
She mindlessly followed the clerk as he fumbled to find the keys before
unlocking the door. On stepping inside, a strong blast of disinfectant hit
Neha’s nostrils. Her burqa’s flimsy veil was no use. Along with the smell
rose a wave of cold. Neha pinched her nose through the black fabric of her
veil. The hairs on her neck stood. The clerk flicked on a couple of switches
on the wall. After what seemed like an eternity, the dull, fluorescent lights
flickered on and off for a while. Several seconds later, they worked in
unison to cast a dull glow in the room.
The clerk gestured Neha to stop. A few feet inside the entrance, he held
a slip of paper against a small tungsten filament bulb. The light was just
enough to read the fine print indicating Fatima’s storage unit ID. Fatima’s
body was one of the many here, sorted and sequenced by name and date of
admission into the morgue.
That’s what we all become in the end. Alphanumeric IDs.
The clerk dragged himself toward the corresponding section, gesturing
at Neha to follow. He examined each compartment’s code and finally pulled
out one of them on a horizontal platform. Neha shuddered. On the platform
lay Fatima’s mortal remains, sealed in a body bag with the zipper pulled up
all the way to the top.
“Can you please open it?” Neha asked, her voice shrinking into a
whisper, as she looked away.
“Yes.” The clerk pulled the zipper down to Fatima’s navel. “Please
don’t touch the body. It’s scheduled for a postmortem.”
Neha closed her eyes as her head turned back to Fatima’s body. She was
not ready to look. She would never be. But she had to be sure.
“Alright. Can I please have a moment with her alone?” Neha asked,
eyes still shut tight.
“Yes, of course. Don’t take too long, though, I’ll keep your forms
ready.”
Neha waited with bated breath until she heard the clerk drag his feet out
of the room. She pulled the zipper down all the way to Fatima’s feet, unable
to muster the courage to look at her face.
Whose shoes are these? What happened to your favorite Adidas pair?
The ones you always wore?
Fatima’s body still had the clothes Neha had last seen her in.
Fortunately, at least some of the blood had been wiped off her before
sealing her in the body bag. Her clothes, however, retold the horrible tale.
Neha winced as she saw the bloodstained denim shorts. Fatima’s grey
Mood Magenta sweatshirt still had splinters from the wooden stage.
Especially around the areas where she’d landed — on her shoulders and the
neck. Neha touched Fatima’s blackish-red bloodstained socks. They were
sparkling white a day ago.
Sad as it all was, what Neha saw on Fatima’s right thigh made her heart
thump like a jackhammer.
It was the size of her palm. The unmistakable, distinct shark insignia.
Neatly cut out on Fatima’s skin, possibly with a letter-cutter or shaving
blade to make the outlines. The only way to make it would have required
peeling off her skin between the outlines. Nothing else could have led to the
signature frightening Red Shark mark.
Neha stared in horror, afraid to touch the self-inflicted wound, yet
unable to look away.
The curves along its outline were smooth as if it made by a professional
tattoo artist. Fatima’s hand must have been unbelievably steady while she
cut herself like this. The shark had a sad-looking, downward shaped mouth
like an inverted smile, as they always seem to do. Its body was U-shaped,
such that its tail ended up below its head. A triangular shark fin stuck out
from the middle of its back.
The perfection of the blade’s path along the curve of the insignia was
frightening. How could Fatima have done this to herself? The skin between
the outlines too was pulled off cleanly, leaving a dark Red Shark figurine.
At the center of the horrid insignia, on the shark’s stomach, were some
letters. Carved out so deeply, dense clots had formed around them. The
letters read AOD NF BFW.
4
Red Alert
Saturday, December 14th
It was still early morning. The streets behind the hospital were empty. Neha
tossed the burqa into a large, rusty dumpster with oil paint peeling off its
sides. She emerged from the other side of the alley as a tall, thin girl
wearing black jeans and a black t-shirt. In less than an hour, she would be
back on campus before anyone realized she had sneaked out. Why would
anybody ask her about a mysterious lady in a burqa? Even if they did, Neha
could claim she’d never even been to the Lokmanya Tilak municipal
hospital.
An incentive of an extra hundred Rupees was enough for the auto driver
to bring her to IIT in thirty minutes. She went straight to her room. Neha
changed back into her clothes from last night.
Sipping a hot cappuccino in the cafeteria, she made phone calls. She
and the other Student Council members soon made their way to the Dean’s
office.
By 8:30 a.m., the eleven Student Council members stood along with the
Dean in a circle around his desk. Prof. Reema Badami was the only other
invitee at the emergency meeting.
“Arjun, you’re going to need all the hands you can get,” Dean Shekhar
said.
“Take every Mood M volunteer,” Neha said to Arjun, the Hostel Affairs
Secretary. She turned to the Dean. “What do you want us to do, sir?”
“We’re banning single occupancy in hostel rooms with immediate
effect. Every occupied hostel room must now have two students,” the Dean
answered. “There will be no exceptions.”
The council members exchanged glances.
“Nobody should be by themselves at any time,” Prof. Badami added. “If
the last student doesn’t have a partner, he or she can move into the faculty
quarters. One of the junior professors will share accommodation while we
get back to normal. I want no excuses if I catch someone who isn’t paired
with a buddy. Every rule can be suitably bent to accommodate this.”
“Can a male and female student be paired?” Arjun asked. “Might make
reassignments a lot easier.”
“I won’t encourage it,” the Dean said. “But if that’s what it takes, do it. I
want a detailed register of all paired students placed in the warden’s cabin
in each hostel. Daily report outs compulsory. You’re accountable for the
safety of your buddy. Simple. I don’t care if it’s mixed-gender pairs. No
room will have has door latches anyway.”
Neha whistled. Heads turned her way. “Understood. We’ll get it done,
sir.”
We never took it so far after any of the earlier suicides. You know it’s
Red Shark. But will you admit it?
The Red Shark insignia on Fatima’s singed Neha’s mind. She shook her
head. The image persisted.
Neha rose her eyebrows. “Isn’t this a little extreme? Unless, of course,
what Inspector Kamal said last night is real. Is it something we need to
worry about?”
“Drop it, Neha.” The Dean’s eyes darted madly, looking at every face in
the room. “With placements around the corner, there’s no telling who else
might do something like her.”
“You mean who else it might happen to.” Neha crossed her arms.
Sumit winced. He stood diametrically opposite to Neha. For the
External Relations Secretary, a Red Shark scandal would be particularly
catastrophic.
“Neha!” Prof. Reema furrowed her brows. “You’re either going to help
us or you’re going to get out!”
“Alright,” Neha said. “I’ll work with Arjun to reallocate all hostel
rooms. We’ll assign partners today itself. What happens to the unoccupied
rooms?”
Prof. Badami said, “After the present occupants move out, we seal their
unoccupied rooms.”
“Got it,” Neha said.
Okay, there’s no way you’d do this if it weren’t for Red Shark. Why don’t
you admit it?
“On the other hand,” the Dean added. “We will break off the latches of
the twin-sharing rooms,” Dean Shekhar added. “Nobody should be able to
lock themselves inside their rooms.”
Do I have to make you spell it out?
“What about the shower rooms?” Neha knew she was pushing it.
“Don’t be ridiculous, Neha,” the Dean scoffed. “We’re doing all we can
to prevent anyone from giving in to placement pressures or poor
academics.”
Neha looked around. None of the other council members raised
objections.
Aren’t you guys alarmed by the craziness of these measures? Don’t you
want to know what’s really going on?
It seemed only Sumit read her thoughts. He looked at the Dean. “Sir,
what do we do about Fatima’s wing-mates? They’re going to be the most
affected.”
You got that right.
Everyone turned to Neha. She was one of Fatima’s seventeen wing-
mates. None of the other girls on their floor were members of the Student
Council.
The Dean asked, “Neha, what do you suggest for occupants in your
wing? I leave you to pick a suitable roommate.”
“I recommend we move the other girls to the faculty quarters. Best if
they have a senior faculty member accessible in the building.”
Prof. Reema and the Dean nodded.
“Okay, let’s get going, team,” the Dean said. “Neha, I trust you’ll see
that all we discussed gets done right away. Let me know if you need
anything.”
“Of course, sir.” Neha squinted her eyes. “I just need you to tell me the
truth.”
The Dean shook his head. “We’re all in the same boat, Neha,” he said.
“We’ll find out the truth together. You’re all dismissed. Prof. Reema and I
have something urgent to discuss.”
* * *
By 9 a.m., all eleven members of the Students Council entered the academic
block. Sumit Pradhan increased the fan speed in the dingy meeting room.
The room’s door was ajar as the last of the final year students walked in. A
faded wooden board read in bold, white letters. It needed a fresh coat of
paint every year to proudly read: Student Council Office, IIT.
“Alright, we’ve got our tasks cut out.” Neha picked up a marker and
walked up to the whiteboard.
“I’ll be on the ground, working with each of you in parallel around the
day.” Neha wrote her name in a corner on the board and put a tick mark
against it. “Arjun, I’m adding you to the Mood M volunteers WhatsApp
group. Use them as needed to break down door latches.”
Arjun nodded. Neha wrote each of the council members’ names and put
a tick against Arjun’s name.
“Isn’t this a bit extreme?” Riddhi, the IT Representative asked. “We
never forced double occupancy before — that too all over the campus. We
definitely didn’t ever break down door latches after a suicide.”
“There’s more to it than meets the eye, Riddhi,” Neha agreed.
Sumit spoke before anyone else could. “Let’s just do as we’ve been
asked, okay?”
“We can’t let this impact studies,” Kapil, the Academics Secretary said.
“We’re three months from the term-end. I’m not talking only about the final
year students. Even juniors need to hold up their GPAs.”
“They’ll manage.” Vikas, the Placement Representative said calmly.
“We need to focus much more on the seniors for now. Fatima was a final
year student and this will rattle quite a few batchmates. Maybe that’s why
the Dean’s going down this unprecedented path. What’s wrong with the
buddy system anyway? Doesn’t hurt to have someone to talk to while
preparing for placements. If anything, let’s pair weaker final year students
with their knowledgeable batchmates. Everyone wins. Nobody dies.”
Sumit frowned. “That’ll take forever! Look, the point isn’t to pair up
study buddies. We need everyone accountable for their assigned partner.
Let’s get on with it. Arjun, I’ll work with you on sealing off alternate
rooms. Right after the displaced students move in with their next-door
neighbors.”
Neha rolled her eyes. “Sumit, we’re talking about displacing one
thousand students. It’s going to be a hell of a task, so why not make it
meaningful while we’re at it? Don’t try to find shortcuts only to check off
items in the Dean’s list of things to do.”
“The first thing on the Dean’s list is to check off everything else.” Sumit
shrugged. “The longer we take, the greater the chance someone’s parents
will come barging into the Dean’s office. About time someone demands to
know what the hell is going on.”
“How are you going to stop it? Do you think people won’t tell their
parents because of your stupid announcement? You think anyone’s checking
the bulletin board right now?”
“I did my job in putting out the announcement. It’s their problem if they
flout it. It’ll become ours if we don’t act fast.” Sumit looked away,
searching for support from the rest of the council. “We have close to four
hundred students per year. That accounts for sixteen hundred
undergraduates. Add to that another four hundred masters students, and
we’ve got quite a handful. I won’t stick around till you manually assign
suicide buddies.”
“Suicide prevention buddies,” Neha corrected.
“Whatever,” Sumit said. He sighed and continued. “We have to get this
done across all twelve hostels. Not to mention moving Fatima’s wingmates
to the faculty quarters. Let’s get cracking.”
Neha assigned tasks to the others. She put checkmarks against their
names after adding their most important tasks. All written in bold,
capitalized letters. By 10 a.m., the other council members set out to carry
out their tasks.
A stickler for order and hierarchy, Neha looked at the broad action plan
on the whiteboard. Alone in the StudC meeting room, a whimper at the door
caught her attention.
“Curie!” Neha exclaimed with a lot less enthusiasm than she usually
had for the medium-sized brown dog. Curie was one of the dozen strays
fondly adopted by the IIT community. “Come here, girl.”
Curie stuck her tail between her hind legs and walked toward Neha. She
dragged her belly along the cold office floor.
“What’s with you?”
Curie looked away.
You’ve looked down for a couple of days now. Are you ill?
Neha saw Curie’s large, swollen nipples.
The pups giving you a hard time, eh? How Fatima used to play with
them!
“I know what’s wrong, girl. You found out about Fatima, didn’t you?
She loved you so much.” Neha crouched and scratched Curie’s ear.
The horrific image of the Red Shark insignia carved on Fatima’s right
thigh flashed in her mind. It would not leave her alone no matter what.
Curie growled when Neha ruffled the fur on her back.
“Don’t worry girl, we’ll find out what really happened to Fatima.
Follow me, I’ll get you some biscuits.”
5
Struck Off
Saturday, December 14th
By night, her overworked body craved sleep. But it was the last thing on her
mind.
You won’t ever wake up again, Fatima. Why did you do it?
Neha returned to the Students Council office. She sat on a faded white
plastic chair, her head buried into her folded arms resting on the wobbly,
wooden desk. Her limbs ached, having spent the entire day working like a
robot. She had toiled harder, longer, and with far more efficiency than other
council members or admin staffers. Throughout, the image of the Red Shark
cut onto Fatima’s skin flashed in her mind. It never left her alone.
“The other council members are on their way from the Dean’s office.”
Sumit pulled a plastic chair and sat across the desk. “Want some coffee?
The general mess has downed the shutter. I’m ordering from the night
canteen.”
“Night canteen? What time is it?” Neha asked in a muffled voice. Her
face pressed against the desk with her elbows on either side of her head
while her hands stroked her neck.
“Quarter to midnight. You haven’t eaten all day. I’m ordering chicken
sandwiches and coffee for you.” He picked up the landline and dialed the
night canteen’s extension.
Chicken sandwiches. Fatima’s favorite.
“Alright.” Neha didn’t want to eat, but a refusal would take more energy
than she could spare. “All visitors packed off to their colleges?”
Sumit gestured with his hand, requesting Neha for a moment. He rattled
out his order on the phone, disconnected the call, and then answered Neha.
“Almost. Only four hundred more to go. They’re getting picked up in the
morning. I’ve spoken to their college heads. They’ve arranged buses and
train tickets for their cohorts.”
“Alright. What about our students? All folks on campus accounted for?”
“All hostel reps confirmed headcounts an hour ago.” Sumit pulled out
his cellphone and brought up an email for Neha to read. “Everyone’s
accounted for in all twelve hostels. Except for seventeen students — all
locals. Nothing to worry about. Each of them checked out of campus after
signing their hostel registers. We called their folks and made sure all
seventeen students got home safely.”
“Excellent.” Neha stared out the window. She saw the Mood Magenta
banner fluttering outside in the chilly night wind. It was the first time in
four years the pavement looked so empty this time of night. “Sumit,” she
said. “I need to know something before the other council members get
here.”
“Yes?” Sumit leaned in closer.
“Do you know if the founders of the Red Shark suicide game at
Moscow University were ever caught?”
“What?” Sumit jerked behind. “What does that have to do with
Fatima?”
“I didn’t say it does. Answer me. Did they stop the game?”
“Well, the thing died out like a fashion fad.” Sumit looked away and
rubbed his chin. “The suicides stopped after they arrested the alleged
founder, a Ph.D. student. He was a Psychology major at Moscow
University. He was at the university for at least seven years.”
“Did he ever admit he created the Red Shark game?”
“Well, obviously. He turned himself in right after uploading a YouTube
video of his confession.”
“And there were no suicides after that?”
“No, there weren’t. But I don’t think he had anything to do with it,
honestly.”
“Why?” Neha squinted her eyes.
“He did it for the attention, Neha,” Sumit said. “How can a game force
its players to commit suicide? Think about it.”
Neha chewed her lips in silence. “Why else would Fatima do it, then?”
Sumit parted his lips but held back words as if to gather his thoughts.
“Neha, look, I know she was very close to you. It’s natural you want to
blame someone else for what she did to herself.”
Neha lifted her head and shot him an angry stare. She rested her chin on
the desk. “She did not do it to herself. I don’t know why you, the Dean, and
Prof. Reema want to downplay this as an ordinary suicide.”
Neha paused to let her own words sink in. What a terrible time and
place to be. Where something as macabre as a student suicide was ordinary.
“Because it is only a suicide, Neha. Nothing more.” Sumit crossed his
arms. “I’m not saying it’s not tragic. It is very, very sad indeed. But there’s
nothing more to it. Haven’t we seen six suicides on campus over the last
four years?”
“How many of them were anything like this?” Neha straightened her
back and placed her palms flat on the desk. “Naresh and Geetika ate
sleeping pills. Shalini hanged herself from the ceiling fan. They discovered
Abdul’s body in the shower, with his wrist slashed. The suicides all
happened in the victims’ rooms or nearby. You remember how we broke
down Abdul’s shower room door. Right after his wing-mate complained of
blood. You see how each of these suicides was different from what
happened to Fatima?”
“You mean all earlier suicides were private affairs.”
“Yes. But Fatima chose the busiest eve of the year to do it. In front of a
hundred and fifty thousand visitors from colleges all over the country. I
don’t understand why everyone, including you, is downplaying this?”
“Downplaying? It’s only been a day! Neha, you’re blowing this out of
proportion. The cops are on it, our administration is on it, they will get to
the bottom of it. It’s their job.”
“Remind me what’s our job?”
“To ensure the welfare of our student body. That’s what they elected us
for.” Sumit waited for Neha to reply, and heaved a sigh when she didn’t.
There was a rap on the door. Sumit gestured the canteen boy to leave the
meal tray on the desk. After he was gone, Sumit placed a cup of coffee near
Neha. He unwrapped the plastic wrapper and handed her a chicken
sandwich along with a white paper napkin.
“No, Sumit,” Neha said, shaking her head slowly. “I’m not okay with
this. Something’s super fishy. Inspector Kamal and the Dean are family
friends. They’ve known each other since college. They played club cricket
together. We’ve seen them having a drink together every now and then. I
don’t want them to close the case as if it were yet another unfortunate
suicide.”
“Neha, for god’s sake! What are you trying to allege? Inspector Kamal
has closed many suicide cases, and not only at IIT. Has he ever done it
without following the due procedure? What do you want him to do?
Sensationalize the matter?”
“Why not, if it’ll bring out the truth?”
“What truth, Neha? What good will come out of this blowing out of
proportion? Do you know the application rates to Moscow University
halved after the scandal? Right after the Red Shark rumors went viral! Do
you want that to happen to our own IIT?”
“Wow, Sumit. You’re dismissing the Red Shark suicides in Moscow as
rumors? Despite having spent a term there when it happened.”
“Does it matter anymore? We are three months away from our
placements and final semester exams. You’re the President of the Students’
Council! It’ll be on you if a single company walks out of the process
because of such a scandal!”
“I don’t care about placements anymore. Now I see why Fatima didn’t
either. That’s all this place has become about.” Neha furrowed her brows
and dug into her chicken sandwich. It felt good as it went down her throat.
Fatima, why aren’t you going to eat these anymore?
Sumit slammed a fist on the table, spilling some of Neha’s coffee.
“Wow, you may not care about other people’s careers, but I sure as hell do.
Not everyone’s privileged like you. I’m going to be paying off my student
loan for seven years at least, assuming I land a Day 0 job. You have no right
to ruin anyone’s career for your friend’s moment of glory.”
“Sumit!” Neha’s eyes burned like embers. “You say that about Fatima
ever again—”
Sumit looked down. “I didn’t mean to, Neha, I’m sorry.” He raised his
hands to apologize and spilled some of his own coffee on his shirt. “But
seriously, she’s gone. Harming the larger student body’s academics or
placements is not worth it.”
“So what do you want me to do?” Neha bit her lower lip.
“You’ve already spent all day doing the stuff you should be doing. No
other President in IIT’s StudC has faced such a disaster. You’ve done a
great job, in spite of it being so painful for you. Please focus on the students
and let the police do their thing.”
Thinking of her secret visit to the morgue, Neha wondered how stumped
Sumit would be if she told him what she knew. It was best he didn’t know.
She sighed and nodded. “You’re right. Fatima was too close. I am
emotionally involved.” Neha thought of the bright red wound on Fatima’s
thigh. “I should just do what I was elected to.”
Sumit sighed with relief. Neha shrugged, letting him believe she had
given in. But she wasn’t going to. Not until she found out the truth. Sumit
could live in his illusion. The Red Shark image flashed brighter in Neha’s
mind. She had had enough.
It became unbearable to hold back. Unable to decide whether to smash
the chicken sandwich on Sumit’s face or to slam his head against the wall,
Neha resorted to sarcasm.
“You’re right,” she snapped. “I’ll do what any other President would do
in my place. After all, solved best friend’s suicide mystery doesn’t make a
compelling CV point. I can do better. Successfully oversaw placements and
student affairs for IIT’s student body.”
Sumit rolled his eyes. “Neha, this isn’t about CV points. There’s a lot
more to our responsibilities as StudC members. You know it better than
anyone else. You know what, chuck it. The Dean and Prof. Reema were
right about the list. Now I know why.”
“What list?” Neha’s eyes lit up.
“The Dean and I put together a curated list of students. Handpicked
students to give formal statements to Inspector Kamal on Fatima’s suicide.”
“Why wasn’t I consulted when you put this list together?”
“Consulted?” Sumit scoffed. “You aren’t even in it.”
“What!” Neha was livid. Smashing a chicken sandwich on his face
wouldn’t do now. She visualized slamming his head against the wall.
“I fought hard to add you,” Sumit said. “But Prof. Reema outright
refused. She warned me that each time I insisted, I was getting closer and
closer to getting struck off the list myself.”
6
For Attention
Sunday, December 15th
Neha hadn’t slept for even ten minutes at a stretch since Fatima died on
Friday evening. It took every last ounce of energy to power through the
late-night StudC meeting last night. She didn’t remember when she returned
to her room. Nor did she have any recollection of when she finally fell
asleep. It was Sunday morning, and she was still wearing her clothes from
Friday.
Just like Fatima.
Her head gave every sign it was about to explode. With one eyelid
partially open thanks to all the effort she could muster, she glanced at her
phone. It was a little past noon.
Her phone beeped the low battery alert. Neha hoped against hope the
last forty hours had all been a nightmare. She knew it wasn’t so, when her
WhatsApp messenger showed six hundred unread texts. Confirming her
fears, not one of the messages was from Fatima. Neha opened the last chat
she had had with her best friend.
Fatima, 7:56 p.m.: I’ll be right there. Almost ready.
You, 7:59 p.m.: Don’t be late, Deano’s about to kick-off Mood M. See you.
Fatima, 8:00 p.m.: You sure will.
That was it. The last of what Fatima had said to Neha.
You didn’t even say goodbye.
Neha dragged herself to her cupboard and grabbed her toothbrush. She
walked down the corridor to the shower rooms. It was for the first time
since Fatima died that Neha looked into a mirror. Everything she did now
was for the first time since Fatima died.
She didn’t recognize who she saw in the mirror. She looked like the
resultant heap of a garbage truck overturned into an open sewer. Neha
brushed her teeth, and wasn’t sure if the toothpaste was saltier than usual or
it was the taste of dried tears.
She played the events of the last evening in her mind. It was no effort to
skip over the boring parts of the StudC meeting. Especially the part after the
rest of the council members arrived. What bothered her most apart from
Fatima’s death was her conversation with Sumit. Those words struck her
even now. She replayed them in her mind over and over again. Like
rewinding and playing the favorite part of a song again and again on an old-
school tape recorder. Except, this was far from being a favorite moment.
She stopped her brain’s rewind button at the irritating moment. Once again
she heard in her mind what Sumit told her. Only a select few students had
got handpicked. Only their official statements would make it to Inspector
Kamal’s official reports.
* * *
A bath and a fresh set of clothes did little to cheer up Neha’s spirit. What
were clothes anyway? Yet another meaningless layer. On top of the layer of
meat and bones that clothe something more fundamental. The deepest
meaning of who we are. Fatima’s fundamental entity had died long before
she killed her meat-and-bone clothing.
Neha stood outside the police station, with a clear view of the waiting
room. She recognized each of the students inside. They sat nervously,
awaiting their turn to give their formal statement. Once summoned, they
gave it all in writing to Inspector Kamal, seated inside his cabin.
As much as she felt the urge to barge in and demand that they take her
statement, she couldn’t act on it. It would not only be futile but would
weaken her cause further by making her seem loony. It was a difficult
decision. The desire to learn Fatima’s truth threatened to worsen things for
Neha and the IIT student body.
She waited for hours before Inspector Kamal stepped out. During her
long wait, she saw handpicked students leaving the station one by one after
every hour or so.
Most had been so eager to leave, they took no notice of Neha. The few
she hated, unfortunately, did. One of them even gave a faint glimmer of a
mocking, triumphant smile as he walked past her. He had lost the
Presidential election a year before and held a grudge to date.
When Inspector Kamal finally came out of his cabin, it was a little past
sunset. The sun may have given up for the day, but Neha hadn’t. Her work
was about to begin.
Inspector Kamal walked out of the police station. Having failed to see
Neha, he marched toward his Royal Enfield motorcycle. Before he could
start the ignition, Neha’s gaze met his in the rear-view mirror.
“Good evening, Inspector.”
“Hello, Neha. I was expecting to see you for your statement. Then I
figured you must have opted out. I know it can be painful to go over these
things again and again. Anyway, I’ve made a strong mental note of all you
told me that night.”
Neha decided it wasn’t worth it explaining why she wasn’t there for a
statement. “I need your help.”
“Yes, sure, please tell me. How about a cup of tea?”
“If you don’t mind, I’d prefer beer.”
Inspector Kamal had an incredulous look as he took the key off his bike
and thrust it into his pocket. “I think I should arrange for a vehicle to drop
you back on campus.”
“I’m okay to skip the beer if that gave you the wrong idea. I only
suggested it because you said you function best when drunk.”
“Ah, who am I kidding? Let’s go. I badly want a beer, and daresay you
need one too.”
* * *
Any other man of the age of Inspector Kamal walking into the bar with
Neha would have drawn some serious stares. Maybe it was his uniform or
his reputation. Whatever it was, it repelled not only judgment-laden stares
but also uncouth whispers.
“A large Kingfisher Strong,” Neha said to the waiter.
“Ah, I see you’ve done your homework about me. And what will you
drink?” Inspector Kamal smirked.
“What homework? I ordered my usual.”
Inspector Kamal held back his retort. From his eyes, Neha sensed he
knew it would be unkind to deny her the smallest of wins.
Kamal ordered the same with the addition of French fries and salted
peanuts.
“You know they’re keeping me out of the formal procedures, right?”
Neha asked.
“I guessed as much. It’s alright. You can trust me to do my job. I’ve
done it before, I hope I never have to do it again.”
“This isn’t like any of the last six suicides during my time at IIT.”
“No suicide is the same, Neha. They’re incredibly painful, each of them.
You’ve seen six, I’ve seen at least twenty from your very own campus in
the last ten years. Believe me, I will never get used to it. I have a daughter
your age. I’d never get over it if anything happened to her.”
“Was there a pattern to the suicides?” Neha wasted no time in
understanding his personal life.
“Of course, with students, it’s almost always the same three-four
things.”
“The ones you asked me about Fatima? Academics, boyfriends,
bullying?”
“Indeed. Those reasons right there explain almost every case.”
“Why did you bring up Red Shark on Friday?”
“Not that again, please. I really shouldn’t have mentioned it that night.
Don’t give it another thought.”
“I wouldn’t have. Had I not seen the Red Shark insignia carved on
Fatima’s thigh for myself.”
Inspector Kamal spilled his beer on his lap. He was too stunned to wipe
it off. “What do you mean?”
“I saw it on her thigh. It was this big.” Fatima laid out her open palm
and drew a rough outline on it with the index finger of her other hand.
“When did you see this?”
“Yesterday morning.”
“What?” Inspector Kamal barked aloud, drawing stares from the other
tables at last. “That explains the police report the morgue in-charge filed!
An unidentified young lady claimed to be the sister, saw Fatima’s body, and
fled without notice. It was you!”
“Is Red Shark happening in India?” Neha asked, unperturbed that her
outing in a burqa had led to the filing of a police report.
“That was a serious offense, young lady.” Inspector Kamal composed
himself and wiped the beer off his lap with a soiled napkin.
“Is this the first Red Shark suicide in India?” Neha persisted.
“Waiter! Get me the check.” Inspector Kamal summoned the meek
waiter.
The waiter’s face sank as he complied. Unhappy guests meant there
wouldn’t be a tip. He asked two times if he could clear their plates. His
guests hadn’t touched even a single salted peanut.
Kamal’s French fries soaked in his spilled beer. He turned to Neha. “I
will tell you only one thing, Neha. Don’t get in the way of legal procedures.
It’s not your job to investigate this suicide. I don’t want to get you in
trouble.”
“What kind of trouble? You’re going to tell the Dean and get me
expelled, aren’t you?”
“Unfortunately for you, if he finds out what you’ve done, expulsion
would be the least of your concerns. He’s spent his life building IIT’s
reputation from scratch. A police case against an IIT student would make
terrible news. I’m going to let this mistake slide under the carpet, but you’d
better watch yourself, young lady. No more interference in my case.”
“Why do I get the feeling there’s a catch?” Neha felt oddly at ease with
even the idea of expulsion. It was a small price she’d willingly pay for
Fatima’s sake. “I expected you to dial the Dean’s number right away after I
told you it was me at the morgue. Since you haven’t done it yet, I guess
you’re afraid of getting into trouble too.”
“The IIT hype is real alright. Yes, there’s a catch. Fortunately for you,
he’ll blame me for setting you off in Red Shark’s direction. Your secret at
the morgue is safe with me, as long as you promise to let me work on the
case without interfering any more.”
“It won’t be interference if you let me help you, right?”
“You’re a smart girl. But seriously, I’ll be honest with you. This may be
very hard for you to digest—”
“Trust me, there’s nothing that can make this worse. Give it to me
straight.”
“I think Fatima did it for attention.”
Neha was aghast. “What attention can the dead possibly get?”
“You’ll be surprised if you saw some of my case reports. I don’t want to
hurt you or your friend’s memory, but instinct tells me she did it for
notoriety. I did not want to say this until my investigation was complete.”
“What makes you think that’s why she did it?” Neha twisted her hair
between her fingers, wanting to tear them off.
“You asked me about a pattern, right? This doesn’t fit the pattern. Think
about it. She chose a crowded venue, where not only her college mates but
also students from all over India saw her die. I had noticed the Red Shark
insignia even before her body went into the ambulance.”
“So, is that why you let Red Shark slip from your mouth at the Dean’s
office?”
“Yes, of course, I was exploring every conceivable angle in my head.
It’s unfortunate I said it aloud and made you go through this additional,
avoidable hell.”
“Then tell me, sir. What do you think really happened?”
“Neha, you know the answer. You’re just not willing to accept it. And
that’s alright. You need some time. Eight of the twelve alleged Red Shark
suicides in Moscow University had nothing to do with the game. Except for
the Red Shark insignias cut into their bodies. The police called them
“copycat” suicides, done for posthumous fame. Each of the suicides went
viral, some even more than the original Red Shark deaths. Believe me when
I say this, Fatima did it for attention.”
7
New Roommate
Sunday, December 15th
It was hard to tell the last time Neha returned from a pub without getting
drunk. Having politely refused a drop back to the campus, it felt awful as
she entered IIT’s main gate.
She watched sad first-year students - the involuntary volunteers for
Mood M - getting work done. They dismantled the festive lighting and
sponsorship kiosks. It was a cruel reminder that this year’s Mood M died a
premature death. As did Fatima. The vibrant, colorful decor was gone. As
had Fatima.
Neha stormed her way into the academic block. She ignored the friendly
old watchman who wore a concerned look. She ran up the stairs toward the
StudC room. She pushed the wooden door open with her wrist and took a
seat at the table in the StudC room. The other eleven StudC members let out
impatient groans. Their angry looks told her how long they had been
waiting.
“Sorry, I’m late.” Neha didn’t mean it at all, and her eyes left no doubt.
“Have all the hostel rooms been reassigned, Arjun?”
“Hostels H1 thorough H7 have all even-numbered rooms vacated and
locked.” Arjun bowed his head, pressing his wrist against the bridge of his
nose. The Hostel Affairs Secretary, or the HAS as they called him, was
Neha’s most reliable lieutenant. With a knack for order and getting things
done with urgency, Arjun was a great asset. “Every odd-numbered room
now has two occupants.”
“We still have some students alone in their rooms?” Neha slapped her
forehead. “What about the last five hostels?”
“We’re on it and gaining momentum. Hostel guards are helping pack
and move things.” Arjun shook his head as if to fight off imaginary
cobwebs.
“You haven’t slept a wink since Friday, have you?” Neha’s voice
softened.
“As soon as hostels H8 through H12 get reassigned, I’m going to sleep
for a week.”
“Sumit, do we have any major objections to the compulsory twin-
sharing rooms order?” Neha turned toward the ER Secretary.
“Only a few, the most troublesome of the lot being that serial repeater
Alok Das. Forget him. He’s too old to be a student here anyway. As for the
vast majority, it was almost like they were going to move in with their
friends anyway. Nobody wants to be alone at a time like this.”
“That’s great, Sumit,” Neha said. She continued, more as a note to
herself than the rest, “The problem, however, isn’t about being alone in
your room. It’s about feeling alone in a crowd.”
The Students Council members sat in silence for a full thirty seconds as
Neha remained lost in her thoughts.
“Neha?” Arjun said, at last snapping Neha’s trance.
She watched him battle fatigue. His efforts made it look like his eyes
would pop out. He pried open his eyelids with his index fingers and
thumbs; a desperate bid to stay awake.
He needs some rest. I hope you get plenty of it, Fatima.
“Sorry,” Neha said. “What about Fatima’s hostel wingmates?”
“All seventeen girls from Fatima’s wing have shifted to the guest rooms
in the faculty quarters. Twin sharing, except for the largest flat, which has
three girls. Prof. Sood and Prof. Chandar live on the floor above and have
agreed to keep an eye on the girls.”
“Weren’t there eighteen girls in Fatima’s wing?” Neha asked, but
immediately remembered only seventeen needed a transfer. Another cruel
reminder that Fatima was no more. “Never mind.”
“Neha, do you want to activate triggers for specific keywords or block
any websites on the IIT network?” asked Riddhi, the IT Representative of
the StudC.
“And while we’re at it,” Sumit took the opportunity to cut in. “I want
your help to remove the four videos of the suicide that are now in the public
domain. Those damn visitors oughta get thrown in jail for uploading this
shit.”
Neha didn’t care. She figured the more heat the situation created, the
more likely Inspector Kamal was to do a thorough job.
Would he still hide it all under the carpet?
“Sumit, I thought your team sanitized all the visitors’ phones?” Neha
didn’t wait for his reply. “How the hell did these videos leak?”
“I assure you no phone we checked had a copy of these videos.” Sumit
raised his hands and brought them on either side of his face, palms facing
forward. “They must have uploaded them on the cloud before we could
delete anything from their phones.”
“Whatever it may be, take Riddhi’s help and fix it. I hope those assholes
used our campus’ free WiFi while they were at it. Might make it easier to
catch them.” Neha slid her tongue over sticky teeth. They still had a faint
beer taste. “Go to the server room and check all the logs.”
Sumit and Riddhi left, as did most of the other council members. On
their way out, Neha gave them tasks they had to complete before retiring
for the night. Only Kapil, the Academics Secretary, colloquially called the
ASS, and Arjun stayed back. Neha shut the door.
“Okay, you’re the only two people I trust right now.” Neha pulled her
chair closer to the table and whispered. “We’re going to do something that
may matter a lot. Or somewhat. Maybe not at all. Either way, it needs to be
done.”
Neha watched as Kapil nodded intently, eager to help. It amused her to
watch Arjun’s eyes light up as if the cure to his fatigue was the opportunity
to do something more.
“We’re going to rig the hostel reallocation process.” Neha rested her
fists on the desk. “Twin-sharing with a random roommate isn’t the best
way.”
“Yes,” Arjun said. The enthusiastic ring had returned in his voice. “I
wanted to assign room partners based on some logic, but Sumit insisted we
get it done ASAP. Hence the idea to seal off alternate rooms. All displaced
occupants move in with their next-door neighbors. What’s your bright idea
for better room allocations?”
“We’ll get to it. Kapil, get your laptop and give me a list of the grades of
each of our students. Segregated by year.”
“You know I can’t share that!” Kapil’s jaw dropped. “If it were only the
final year students’ data, I could manage something.”
“All batches.” Neha held up a hand indicating she wouldn’t settle for
anything less. “I want detailed records for every student on campus.” Neha
didn’t blink her eyes. She watched Kapil fumble for words before
reluctantly nodding his agreement.
“What are we going to do?” Arjun asked. His excited voice betrayed the
casual body language he tried to maintain.
“You’re going to give me a detailed report of every major instance of
ragging, bullying, and breakups.”
“There’s no report for that!” Arjun laughed.
“It’s right in there.” Neha tapped her index finger on his temple. “You
weren’t elected as HAS for your hands-down approach alone. You’re IIT’s
one and only people’s person. There’s no rumor or gossip that doesn’t pass
through your ears, and in some cases, your tongue. Now’s the time to cough
it up.”
“Where are you going with this?” Arjun asked.
“Neha, is this necessary?” Kapil added. “I’ll be breaking a lot of rules
by digging out everyone’s grades from the system. It’s confidential and you
know it. Especially so close to placements.”
“Okay, here’s the thing. I couldn’t have gone to any other StudC
members for this. I trust the two of you most. You guys usually offer the
least resistance and deliver the best results. Help me out here. We can’t fail
at what we’re about to do.”
“What’s that?” the boys asked in unison.
Neha shrugged. “What else do you think? We’re going to try and
prevent anyone else from attempting suicide.”
An hour later, the night canteen rang a bell to signal they were taking
the final food orders for the night. Hungry as she was, food could wait.
Neha looked at the list Kapil and Arjun had put together. Sixteen students
stood out far from the rest. As per Neha’s model, these sixteen were at the
highest risk of developing suicidal tendencies. A fair assumption, given
their academic records, history of fights, non-social behavior, and instances
of heartbreak. Heartbreak took many forms at IIT. It included internship
rejections as well as trouble with significant others.
“We’re going to handpick roommates for these high-risk people.” Neha
declared, her eyes frozen on the name at the top of the list. “I’ll move into
Alok Das’s room first thing tomorrow morning.”
8
Bigger Failure
Monday, December 16th
Neha shielded her eyes and most of her face with a hand. The morning
sunlight illuminating the glass walls of the corridor had nothing to do with
it. Rather, it helped her ignore the stares of the Masters’s students. They
weren’t used to undergraduates on their turf.
Alok’s hostel, H12, was at the extreme end of the students’ residential
complex. All the undergraduate students lived in hostels H1 through H11.
Hostels H9, H10, and H11 were ladies hostels. The few women enrolled in
the Masters’ course had rooms in a separate wing within H12 itself. Alok’s
room was on the third floor, right above the women’s wing.
Happy to see alternate rooms of H12 had doors ajar and no latches,
Neha glanced at the remaining sealed ones. She peeped into most of the
open rooms. Her faith in Arjun’s ability to get room reallocations done on
time bore benefits. There were at least two people inside each open room
she peered into. Draconian policy or not, Arjun was her go-to man for such
stuff and she typed out a message of appreciation.
Right as she was about to hit the send button, what she saw changed her
mind. Alok Das’s room was latched. From inside!
Neha rapped her knuckles on the door. She was a little nervous and
massively irritated. Alok had locked himself in despite the Dean’s orders.
Only hours after Fatima’s suicide.
“Who is it?” Alok’s agitated voice matched the intensity of Neha’s
knocking.
“Why is your door locked?”
“What do you want?”
“Open the door before I have guards come here and break it down. And
I don’t mean just the latch.”
A full ten seconds passed before she heard the door unlatch from inside.
“Well, well, if it isn’t the President herself!” Alok stood in the doorway,
his massive beer belly bulged against the wooden door frame. “The guards
know me well enough to not break my door despite the Dean’s orders. He
pays them their salary, but there’s only so much loyalty money can buy. I’ve
already made it clear. I’m not sharing my room with anyone. Not that you’d
be able to force someone to stay with me anyway.”
“What makes you think I’ve forced someone to move in with you? I am
your buddy.”
“Is that what they’re calling it?” Alok scoffed. “Buddies? Why don’t
you just call them what they are?”
“What would that be?”
“Scapegoats.”
Neha cocked her head. “How is a suicide prevention buddy a
scapegoat?”
“Well, buddy, let me explain.” Alok rolled his eyes. “If I commit
suicide, is it fair for you to take accountability”
“I won’t be a scapegoat if you do.” Neha leaned in closer. “Besides, you
have a record of never actually killing yourself, don’t you?” She was
walking a tight rope, given Alok’s history, but she had to break his
defensive shell fast.
Alok’s shoulders drooped. “That’s rather insensitive. You’re probably
the worst suicide buddy on campus. No wonder they paired you with me.”
“They? Nobody paired me with you. I chose to be here. You’d better get
used to it.”
“You can’t be serious! You’re going to live here?” Alok’s bushy
eyebrows darted above the wiry frame of his tinted glasses. “Isn’t there a
regulation against non-males occupying rooms in male wings?”
“You can’t stand in the doorway all day. Move aside. I want to unpack.”
Neha pointed to her rucksack to show him she wasn’t kidding.
Alok made way reluctantly. His hairy arms brushed against Neha’s
denim shorts as she squeezed her way inside.
“Okay, suit yourself,” Alok said. “But remember, this is my room. You
follow my rules. I decide what time the lights go on or off - which is mostly
never - and what music to play. If you can’t handle that, get out.”
“Typical Computer Engineers. You think you’re so macho, don’t you?”
Neha glanced around the room, pleasantly surprised by the sparkling clean
room.
It was hardly expected from the over-aged student. His room’s
cleanliness was in stark contrast to his personal appearance. His unkempt
beard and stinky clothes created quite an impression about the kind of room
he’d live in. But the bias his looks created about his room could not have
been farther from the truth. His room was spotless, and not just by
engineering students’ standards.
“Wow, this is quite impressive.” Neha meant it. “I could get used to
living here.”
She placed her rucksack on the floor, noticing the clean maroon carpet
that lined every inch of the floor. With her gaze locked on Alok’s wide-
screen computer, she sat on his bed. The white bed sheet was tucked in so
neatly, it looked as if Alok had ironed it.
“There’s more to this, isn’t it?” Alok crossed his arms. “This isn’t just a
knee-jerk overreaction to Fatima’s suicide.” Alok began to close the door
but Neha’s upheld finger stopped him.
“That door or any door on this campus isn’t closing until things are
under control.”
“Under control? It’s just another suicide! Everyone will forget Fatima in
a week or so. Don’t any of you undergraduate guys prep for job interviews?
Have you forgotten about the final exams?”
“You’re one to talk.” Neha rolled her eyes. “How many years have you
been here again?”
Her instinct told her Alok could handle her taunts. He would have to if
he were to be useful. She had to gauge his state of mind and vulnerability
before revealing her actual motive behind moving in with him. If he showed
the slightest signs of suicidal tendencies, she would have a whole different
problem on her hands.
“Ah, I see where this is going!” Alok slapped his hand on his knee.
“You think I’m the serial repeater and forever alone loser. You fear I’m
likely to commit suicide, at last, triggered by what Fatima did.”
Neha said nothing and stayed alert for non-verbal cues. So far, he
seemed alright. It was heartening he had brought up his past failed suicide
attempts and Fatima’s tragedy. This was a glimmer of hope that her plan
might just work.
“Well, you’re wasting your time.” Alok sat down beside her and Neha
felt the bed creak under his weight. “I’m not suicidal anymore if that’s what
you think. That’s why they put you here against all hostel norms, didn’t
they?”
“You still think the Dean asked me to be your buddy?”
“Why else would you be here? I can almost hear what he must have told
you.” Alok cleared his throat and mimicked Dean Shekar. “That useless
lump, Alok. Scraped through his Bachelor’s course in six years instead of
four, I don’t know why we allowed him to do his Master’s at IIT. We
should’ve expelled him when he attempted suicide for the third time during
his undergraduate course. Not that it taught him anything. He’s still an
antisocial loner, makes no friends, barely leaves his room, and hasn’t once
stepped out of campus. Doesn’t go home during term breaks. His parents
must be so happy. At our expense. It’s like he’s haunting H12.”
Neha grinned. “You really think he says that about you?”
“I’ve heard it with my own ears.” Alok scoffed. “I overheard him
talking to Prof. Reema. That too right after I left his office after a
counseling session! This was only a week after I last attempted suicide.”
“You can’t be serious!” Neha’s eyes widened.
“Anyway, I’m not that loser anymore. I’ve found purpose in my
research. Prof. Surendar has been amazing and my work gives me peace.”
“Yes, I’m sure you get along well with him. He stood up for you and
ensured your admission into the Master’s course here.”
“Why wouldn’t he?” Alok’s chest puffed up with pride. “His thesis
wouldn’t fly without my flair for cybersecurity protocols. He owes me for
my hard work. I slogged behind the scenes for each of the three patents he
holds in his name.”
That did it. He was sufficiently warmed up for Neha to make her move.
“Anyway,” Alok continued. “So like I was saying. If you’re here to
keep an eye on me or to offer me your sympathy, I don’t need the former
and don’t care about the latter.”
Neha smiled. “Well, that’s great then. I’m here for neither.”
“Then you must want my help to understand why Fatima did it.” He
carried on, ignoring Neha’s widening eyes. “What do you think I am, some
kind of suicide expert?”
“Clearly not. But you are an expert in cybersecurity protocols. I know
Fatima’s death has something to do with an online suicide game, with
origins in Russia.” Neha felt the weight lift off her chest. Alok didn’t seem
as vulnerable as she expected. “I need your help to break into their
network.”
Alok’s eyes lit up with a flicker of wonder. “You think it’s wise to
expose a guy like me to help you investigate a game known for making
people commit suicide?”
“You’re stronger than that.” Neha meant it. “You’ve stopped short of
doing it each time.”
Alok lowered his voice and squinted his eyes. “You think that makes it
easier to get over thoughts of killing myself?” He bit his lip and continued.
“Suicide is the last resort of someone with nothing to live for. As a person’s
failures pile up, the urge to die becomes stronger.”
Neha grabbed the edge of the mattress on both sides and dug her nails
into it. “You’re not like that, Alok. You’re a living example for others to
emulate. Especially in these times.”
Alok shook his head. “No, Neha, you’re wrong. Dealing with suicidal
thoughts doesn’t become easier with each attempt. I got closer and closer to
ending my life every time I tried. I almost did it on my third attempt.
Obviously, I had a slightly longer list of failures than I did ever before. If I
attempt suicide again, my list will be even longer. After all, what can be a
bigger failure than three failed suicide attempts?”
9
Ordinary Suicide
Monday, December 16th
H12 was closer to the auditorium than Neha’s old room. Thinking she had
enough time due to the shorter route, Neha unpacked and settled into Alok’s
room. Yet by the time she was on her way to the auditorium for the Dean’s
address to the student body, she was already late. The sun setting behind the
auditorium illuminated the sky with bright orange shades.
Having never been late for the Dean’s address before, she twisted her
ankle yet hobbled along. She cursed Alok under her breath, as he strolled
along slowly without a care in the world. Convincing him to step out of his
room earlier that evening had been a Herculean task. She promised Alok he
wouldn’t regret it if he came along for the emergency student gathering. In
truth, she was herself just as clueless about the agenda. Sumit hadn’t briefed
her about it. Nor had Arjun. None of the Student Council members replied
to her puzzled texts on the matter. Another first during her stint as the
President of the Student Council.
Had Inspector Kamal told the Dean about her visit to the morgue? It
would explain why she wasn’t informed or involved in the planning for the
Dean’s address tonight. She first found out about the Dean’s address when a
notification popped up on her phone an hour ago. Exactly like the rest of the
student body. Only Student Council members knew in advance about
important campus activities. It was standard protocol. Only after the
members discussed did major announcements go live on the IIT Students
app.
Why didn’t they tell me anything? Do the other council members know
about this? Why the hell won’t anyone reply?
Neha checked for replies. On seeing none, she put her phone away with
a sigh. She entered the dark auditorium, turning back once to ensure Alok
hadn’t deserted her. Dim yellow lights lit the corridors and the arches of the
main and backdoor entrances. Almost all of the auditorium’s fifteen
hundred seats were occupied. Amidst the darkened environment, the
brightest lights onstage stood out. They too were somber. A narrow
spotlight focused on the Dean, who stood on a podium at the center of the
stage.
Before they started from their room, Alok had made Neha promise they
wouldn’t sit in the front row. Reminding her of her promise with a nudge of
his elbow, he pointed at the back seats. Gesturing her to follow, he heaved
his massive self to the last row until he found the corner seat. Neha sat on
the one beside him.
Neha was lost in her thoughts. What could be the agenda of the Dean’s
address? A growing feeling of restlessness crept over, knowing she was a
mere attendee. Wasn’t it customary for the Student Council to tend to every
detail of such public addresses? It had to be Kamal.
He must have spoken to the Dean. Why else would they sideline me for
this?
In any case, it was possible the Dean wanted to answer questions raised
on IIT’s discussion forum. After all, such startling and disproportionate
measures were unheard of before. Tearing latches off doors. Compulsory
double occupancy. These were not only new concepts but deployed in
action already. Amongst the other measures enforced hurriedly over the past
three days.
Neha’s trance broke when she saw the rest of the Student Council
assembled at the foot of the stage on the left side. Her jaw dropped as they
ascended the stairs and took their seats on the stage.
They knew about it all along!
Furious and betrayed, Neha dialed Sumit’s number. So what if it rang on
stage and embarrassed him? He deserved it for keeping her in the dark
about this. However, no such small pleasure was in store for Neha. Sumit’s
phone didn’t connect. The switched off caller tune angered Neha further.
The Dean adjusted his tie and shifted his weight from one hip to the
other. He adjusted the microphone and tapped into it a few times to test the
sound. “Good evening, my dear students.”
He took a moment to acknowledge the latecomers. They flocked the
main entrance and a fair number entered from the backdoor. Given the sheer
numbers, some crowded the areas around the stage.
“These are exceptional circumstances. I urge you all to come inside and
sit on the aisles or stand along the sides. Nobody should miss this, and I’m
sure you’ll pardon me for cutting right into the chase.”
His urgency ensured it took only a minute. The entire student body
crammed themselves into the auditorium. Never before in her four years at
IIT had so many students flocked to the auditorium. Not even when the
Prime Minister of India gave a guest lecture during the Tech summit six
months ago.
The only time Neha expected to see such a gathering was for the now-
canceled Mood Magenta finale. For the spectacular play staged by the
Dramatics Club. Fatima was to give her first-ever onstage performance as
part of it. Fatima had boasted only a week ago that she was going to be the
biggest crowd-puller in Mood Magenta’s history. The memory brought tears
to Neha’s eyes. It would have been such a grand event.
The packed auditorium now felt claustrophobic. Fatima’s claim turned
out to be true, in a cruel, twisted way. The crowd gathered here was because
of her. The biggest ever crowd in the auditorium in IIT’s history.
After the students settled down, the Dean tapped his mike once again
and cleared his throat.
“We have, as of the 8 p.m. headcount tally, seventy-five percent of our
full strength still on campus. As you know, we’ve announced a short break
from academics yesterday. Classes will resume after Christmas. You have
the option to head off to your hometowns, following due procedure. To do
so, you need to fill in the registers at your respective hostels and send a
formal email to your hostel reps. Please feel free to do so. I understand
many of you wanted to stay back after Mood Magenta. Especially to start
your finals and placements prep. I wish to clarify there is no pressure on
you whatsoever to stay back or to go home. The library and hostel dining
halls will be fully functional regardless of how many leave. I assure you
your decision will be respected. I know some will prefer staying back for
the library and study groups. They are your best assets for placements, and
so it is understandable if you stay back. Whatever you choose, do not let
this difficult time put you under stress.”
Neha heard murmurs across pockets in the hall. She whispered into
Alok’s ear, “I know he’s saying the opposite, but in truth, he wants to pack
off most of the students. Something big is going on.”
“Now,” the Dean continued. “I’ve read the formal protests and each of
the anonymous ones on the IIT student forum. I understand you want to
express your opinion about the management’s recent policies. But
considering the language used in anonymous posts, we have launched a
new policy. The IIT student forum no longer allows anonymous posts. Next
time you want to say something nasty, say it to my face.”
A roar of boos arose. The Dean overpowered the noise with his
booming voice and continued.
“A few of you have expressed dissent about mandatory twin-sharing
rooms. Others have objected to the removal of latches on hostel room
doors.”
A louder roar arose from the back seats. This time, the Dean demanded
silence before resuming. “Someone wrote, and I quote, “draconian
measures”! I dismiss your protest. Wake up and see where you are studying.
This is IIT. I am responsible for your safety. Another asked about the
“invasion of privacy”. My dear, your privacy means nothing compared to
someone else’s life. I know what your privacy is about anyway. Do you
want me to get the IT representative to pull out your browser history and
email it to your parents?”
Having had enough, a dozen or so students got up and began marching
out of the auditorium.
“Get me each of their names and registration numbers!” The Dean
pointed to the mass of outbound students. “They’re not just walking out of
my session, they’re walking out on their careers. Strike their names off the
placement register if they’re final year students. If not, send them to my
office tonight.”
In an instant, each of the rebels returned to the seats. The Dean smiled.
“Someone wrote a paragraph about “safety and security concerns”, and
“human rights violations”. You can get out of IIT if you have any problems
with what we’re doing to keep everyone safe. For the record, here’s my
unequivocal response to all complaints. No hostel room will have single
occupancy or a door latch for the immediate future, for your own good.”
A meek roar arose, but this time included sloganeering from the rows at
the back.
The Dean stood with crossed arms and an expressionless face. He
resumed only when the protesters realized it was futile. Dean Shekhar
always had the last word, and everyone knew it.
“I will not let anyone take their life as Fatima did. These are short term
measures. IIT’s seniormost management is working day and night to
address the root problems. That is why it wasn’t possible to hold this
address before now. For three whole days since Fatima killed herself, not
one of us has had a sound night’s sleep. I’m doing everything possible for
your safety. Let Fatima’s tragic suicide be a grim lesson for us all and
nothing more.”
Neha’s eyes welled up. She had held back herself long enough. She
stood and stormed her way toward the stage along her nearest aisle. She
shoved and elbowed her way through the crowd. It was difficult not to
trample a few fingers or toes of those students crammed on the narrow
steps. Ignoring the curses of those she stepped on, Neha made her way to
the front row. She turned right and walked along the front row until she
stood at its center.
She looked at Dean Shekhar in the eye. “Fatima’s death is not just a
grim lesson. She died playing the Red Shark suicide challenge.”
A gasp filled the auditorium, followed by whispers and hooting in noisy
pockets.
“Neha, that’s utter nonsense.” The Dean’s voice was unnaturally soft.
Yet his microphone ensured every student heard him.
“Nonsense? The same can be said of these extreme measures, don’t you
think? On one hand, you deny the possible involvement of the Red Shark
challenge in Fatima’s suicide. Yet on the other, you demand we put up with
these unprecedented safety measures you’ve imposed?”
The Dean sighed. “I don’t deny the Red Shark game exists. Of course,
such a horrible thing once existed in Russia. We all know it tarnished
Moscow University’s image. Neha, you’re not the only one who reads such
news. Yes, Red Shark once spread in several Russian universities. But it’s
history now.”
“Please tell me the truth, sir. Did Red Shark kill Fatima?” It was not a
question. In front of the student body, there was nowhere to run. He would
have to admit it.
“What does it matter what you or I say? The police investigation will
detail what killed her. All I can assure you is that with me at the helm of
IIT, no perverted suicide game will have its way with my students. Nor will
it ruin my great institution.”
“If you’re confident it isn’t Red Shark, why enforce twin-sharing rooms
having doors without latches? I never saw such extreme reactions from the
management before. This is not even close to what happened right after any
of the earlier suicides at IIT.”
“Neha, get a hold of yourself. Were any of the other suicides so
dramatic and meant to shock the campus? You can’t accept that your friend
was utterly irresponsible. Not only in deciding to take her own life, but also
in the manner she chose to do it and what it would do to others. She didn’t
care about IIT or our thousands and thousands of visitors.”
“Exactly. It doesn’t add up. If Fatima wanted to kill herself, she’d have
done it in private. Sir, please tell me the truth.”
The Dean pulled his silver hair. “Truth? You already know the truth.
What you want to hear from me isn’t the truth. You want me to lie and
make you feel Fatima wasn’t responsible for her death. Sorry, Neha, she
deserves as much rebuke as sympathy for what she did to herself.”
Someone in the back gasped at the Dean’s remark. Neha’s eyes burned
like embers. “Okay, just so we’re clear. Fatima deserves rebuke for dying or
for making IIT India’s first institute to fall to the Red Shark game?”
Dean Shekhar was speechless. Neha’s persistence seemed to be pushing
the Dean into a corner. With the entire student body waiting for his
response, he trembled.
“Okay Neha, you win. It’s almost like you want to hear someone has
died playing the Red Shark suicide challenge.” Dean Shekhar narrowed his
eyes. He peered down from the podium at Neha, who stood with folded
arms, inches away from the stage. He cleared his throat. “Is this what you
want? Very well. Your cruel wish came true. Not in IIT, and certainly not
with Fatima. Instead, it happened in Chennai, at the Government College of
Engineering. India’s first Red Shark suicide has struck the institute. I hope
that makes you happy, Neha.”
A murmur rose in the auditorium, louder than all the ones before.
Neha didn’t move a muscle. “What? How do you know?”
“You’ll read about it in tomorrow’s papers.” The Dean looked around at
the students in the auditorium. “Your President has stolen my thunder. I
guess that’s her style.”
Pausing for a breath, he gestured to Neha to return to her seat, to which
she refused.
The Dean continued. “I wanted to let you all know before the rest of the
country wakes up to this bitter tragedy. Red Shark is a dangerous online
game, but every single one of you is safe here at IIT. Take it from me,
Fatima’s death was an ordinary suicide. Apart from the terrible manner in
which she carried it out. Having said that, it is yet another unfortunate
demise, no different from the ones that happen at IIT once in a while. What
can I say other than it’s a terrible price to pay? The price of India’s brightest
minds competing in our foremost engineering institute. But that does not
give you the right to behave as you have. Especially your President. I’m
warning you of serious consequences if you create unnecessary panic and
link IIT with Red Shark.”
Neha was left fuming and grinding her teeth. She was about to retort but
held herself back. Her only solace was that Dean Shekhar was no longer in
denial about the deadly game.
10
Good Times
Neha tossed and turned in her sleep. Fully aware she was dreaming, the fact
that this was the only way she could see Fatima made it a nightmare.
The set was pitch-black except for a dull glow pouring out from the
wings on either side of the stage. Vivid scenes from that night a year ago
poured into her lifelike dream. Neha was in the third year of her Mechanical
Engineering course.
It was the first video shoot for their short film. The film’s working title
was Madness in Mumbai. As if the title didn’t need more work, the team
braced for long nights and rigorous editing sessions. It was going to take
immense quantities of caffeine to complete their project on time. In a
month, they were to submit their entry for India’s premier short film
festival, Movies, Mirages & More. They weren’t the only ones. The contest
had registrations from hundreds of colleges. The winning team was
promised flight tickets and 5-star hotel accommodation in Delhi for the
awards ceremony. Renowned Bollywood directors and senior content scouts
from Netflix constituted the judging panel.
Akriti Gupta, a third-year computer engineering student, led the IIT
team on all fronts and was the director of the film. A month later, there
would be no surprises when she got elected as the President of IIT’s
Dramatics Club. Elections for club leader positions were fun and mostly
fair. But the real battles took place during the general elections for the
Student Council. The most important eleven positions within the IIT student
body.
General elections saw the outgoing third-year students contest with
fierce manifestos. It was no mean feat to replace the outgoing final year
students and constitute the new Students Council. The most prized position
of the lot was that of the President.
Neha had gone on to win the general elections with an unprecedented
majority. Yet, someone else on campus was happier than her. Fatima had led
Neha’s election campaign and spared no efforts on the way. Anyone who
saw their faces after the results would have mistaken Fatima as the winner.
But for that famous win, Fatima had made a huge sacrifice earlier.
Neha’s dream took her back to where it all happened a year ago. Memories
from the first night’s shoot for Madness in Mumbai took over. That dark
corner in the auditorium came to life.
“But you’re perfect for the lead role!” Neha insisted. “You wrote her
lines. You built her character from scratch. Nobody else can portray her
better.”
“Who’ll run your Presidential campaign then?” Fatima laughed. “You
haven’t even read the outgoing President’s manifesto. How do you expect to
write a better one?”
“Fair enough. I’ll withdraw my name from the contestants’ list. I don’t
want to win the election if it’s going to cost you the lead role in our film.”
Neha raised her finger and waved it to warn Fatima she meant every word.
“Okay, let me confess,” Fatima leaned in closer so the others working
on the film wouldn’t hear. “I based the lead character on you. I always had
you in mind to play her onscreen. I’ll feel awful if I take the role and our
film doesn’t win.”
“Why do you think our film will win if I play the lead instead of you?”
“Neha, don’t ask me why. I just know it.” Fatima’s eyes shone with
conviction. She held Neha’s hand. “The same way I know you’ll win the
Presidential election only if I run your campaign. But for that, I need you to
star in our film. I’ve given you the lines and spoken to Akriti. The director’s
word is final. You’re going to make IIT proud with your performance.”
The scampering of furry feet caught their attention. Curie ran into the
auditorium and interrupted their conversation. She sat beside Neha.
“Aw, I don’t have anything for you, girl,” Neha said.
Fatima pulled out a pack of biscuits. “I always do, Curie, come here.”
Neha stopped tossing and turning in her sleep. Her muscles relaxed.
They needed this. So did her grieving heart. Happy memories of Fatima
brought momentary respite.
* * *
Neha breathed softly. Fully lost in her dream, she forgot Fatima was no
more.
The dream fast-forwarded to a month later. Akriti, Neha, Fatima, and
the entire crew of Madness in Mumbai popped open beers on the jetty.
Moments ago, Akriti had successfully uploaded their film on the server of
Movies, Mirages & More.
“Damn,” said Fatima. “We forgot to change the title, but it doesn’t
matter. We’re going to win. I can feel it.” She clinked her bottle on Neha’s.
A round of cheers followed.
“You were spectacular.” Akriti walked up to Neha, her face sunk and
shoulders drooped.
“All thanks to my awesome director.” Neha put an arm around her
shoulder. “Something wrong?”
Akriti looked at her shoes. “Scorecards just came in. I flunked the
coding viva.”
Fatima walked up to them. “Big deal, nobody’s going to ask for your
grades after you nail the best director’s award. On a side note, Neha can
help. She’s been taking extra coding classes to prove Mech folks can make
software too.”
Fatima was right. When Movies, Mirages & More released their
winning entry, a long night of celebrations on the jetty followed. Akriti had
won the best director’s award. Neha trended on social media for a full two
weeks. She won the best lead actor award from amongst six hundred
performances. Madness in Mumbai got an offer from Netflix for exclusive
streaming rights.
Arvind, their batchmate from the Electronics Engineering department
approached the girls. He had played a short yet much-appreciated comic
role in their film. He held a strange smelling cigarette between his lips.
“Is that pot?” Fatima laughed.
“How else do you think I came up with better lines than what you put in
the script?”
“Now I know how you improvised.” Akriti’s jaw hung. “I didn’t know
you smoked up.”
“Just started. My seniors swear it helps them stay off the booze.”
“I’m sure.” Neha made a face. She turned to Fatima. “Fatima, I can’t
thank you enough for what you’re doing for my campaign.”
Fatima smirked. “I have good news. Three more contestants dropped
out of the Presidential race. Exit polls predict everyone else will exit before
polling even begins. I have a knack for predictions. Our movie won. Soon,
you’ll be our President.”
“You’re lucky you got the first one right. Do you know what a thrashing
I’d give you if Madness in Mumbai didn’t win? I don’t know about the
others, but I’d hold you responsible for not playing the lead role.”
“Neha, we won because you played the lead role.”
“And if I become President, it’ll be only because of you.” She hugged
Fatima. “It’s too late for this year’s Mood M, but promise me you’ll do it
next year. For our final year Mood M, I’m going to insist on a live
performance of Madness in Mumbai. It will be the grand finale. A fitting
end to our last semester at IIT.”
“What’s the catch?” Fatima’s eyes danced mischievously.
Neha smiled. “You’re going to play the lead role instead of me.”
“We’ll see.”
* * *
Neha’s mind floated in the tranquility of pleasant dreams. But her body
knew it was too good to be true. She jerked awake momentarily, only to fall
asleep again. The only difference being she knew it was a dream, which
made it a nightmare.
This time the dream took her to only a few days ago. It was last week.
The eve Neha signed off on Mood M’s schedule and the safety and security
audits. Later that week, IIT would be ready to receive visitors from all over
India. Nobody dreamt at the time what was going to happen during the
inauguration.
Except for Fatima. Yet how calmly she sat with Neha in the
auditorium’s storeroom. It had been Akriti again leading the efforts. A
Herculean effort ensured the Dramatics Club faithfully rebuilt the set for
Madness in Mumbai. Neha’s costume from the short film made a year
earlier fit Fatima perfectly.
One less wardrobe problem meant room for an early beer. The girls
clinked their glasses. Arvind approached them, reeking of marijuana.
“Don’t tell me you girls won’t give it a shot even now.” He offered his
half-smoked joint to Neha. “Come on, it’s not like you have to memorize
long lines this time.”
“Why don’t you give it to Fatima?” Neha teased. “Let’s see if she
remembers the lines she wrote for me last year.”
“They’re easy,” Fatima said. “It’s mostly the stuff you say in real life.
As I said, the character is based on you. In fact, the whole story is. You’re
the madness in Mumbai.”
“I never thought of it that way. Well, it’s not true anymore. You’re her
now. Let’s see if you can outdo me!” Neha laughed.
Fatima smiled. When it actually happened, Neha thought no more of it.
But now it was different. It took a dream for Neha to notice the hidden pain
behind her best friend’s smile.
Fatima looked at Arvind’s fading joint. “Give me that before it goes
out.” She took a mighty drag and coughed, sending out bursts of grey
smoke. “This tastes like coal!”
“How does it feel?” Neha asked.
“Disgusting. Why don’t you try it?” Fatima thrust the joint in Neha’s
lips.
“Pull it in all the way.” Arvind’s face blurred with every puff Neha took.
Fatima let her go after four whole drags.
Their beady eyes and blurry faces made Neha giggle. They laughed
back at her. After devouring four chicken sandwiches each, Neha looked at
Fatima.
“Why do people drink when they can explore greener pastures?”
“My seniors are wrong. Who says you have to choose?” Arvind placed
two chilled beer bottles in front of them.
“How’d you get this brand on campus?” Fatima inspected the imported
label on her beer.
“I have a contact.” Arvind winked. “Only operates via referrals. Takes a
generous tip, but it’s worth it. He can smuggle the best liquor you can
afford. Better still, he delivers it to your room, no questions asked.”
“Really?” Neha feigned surprise and Fatima giggled. “What’s his
name?”
“Ali.” Arvind laughed at Neha’s confusion. “Don’t tell me the President
doesn’t know about all the bootlegging on her turf!”
Neha laughed, taking the last drag of the joint. “Might have to
reconsider my choices. Weed clearly makes you dumb. Think about it. If I
claimed to know about the little joy rackets that happen on campus, how
long do you think they’d last? Let’s just say I’m going to forget all about
what you just told me tomorrow. We can blame it on the alcohol.”
Fatima giggled and gestured at Neha to stop. She turned to Arvind, her
eyes dancing with mischief. “By the way, who referred you to Ali?”
Arvind sat upright. “I don’t snitch. Anyway, a senior told me last year.”
Neha smiled, stubbing the joint on a crushed soda can. “The senior who
referred you was Gaurav.”
Arvind’s eyes widened. “How the hell do you know that?“
“Who do you think referred him to Ali in the first place?” Neha
laughed. “I’ve known Ali since the first year. Long before I became the
President. By the way, his real name is Hassan. If you call him by that
name, he’ll give you a discount. Thank me later.”
Fatima guffawed and slapped Arvind on his back. The girls watched
him turn red.
The few scraps of their leftover chicken sandwiches were enough to
alert Curie. She crawled out of a dark corner behind the old props cupboard.
“Hey baby, how’re you doing?” Neha ran over to pet Curie’s back.
Neha and Arvind walked over to the cupboard. Behind, in a small
cardboard box were five of Curie’s puppies. Neha peeked inside and then
looked up. “Only five? Didn’t we see six puppies a couple of days ago?”
In the background, someone turned up the speakers. Clearly a fan of
The Doors. The End was playing.
I’ll never look into your eyes again.
11
Peculiar Hashtags
Tuesday, December 17th
Neha awoke, drenched in sweat. Disoriented, she lay on an unfamiliar
mattress on the floor of a strange room. It took a loud snore from the still
asleep Alok for Neha to realize where she was. This was her new room, and
she now had a roommate. It was all a dream. Fatima, Curie, the paper cup
filled with beer, and the backstage shenanigans.
Guess this is pretty much the only way we’ll see each other, Fatima. Too
bad I’ll be asleep and you’ll only be a dream.
Neha grabbed a water bottle off the floor, rolled off the cap, and drank
the last drops. Across the room and two feet above, Alok was snoring
loudly in bed.
“Alok, wake up,” Neha said. “Let’s get down to work.”
Alok mumbled to himself, deep in his sleep.
“Wake up!” Neha shook him.
The moment his eyes opened and fell on Neha, he fumbled to pull his
blanket over his exposed belly. A large part of the blanket trapped under his
weight ensured he failed. His jerky movements made his stomach bulge out
even more from under his t-shirt.
“What the hell are you doing here? Oh, nevermind.” He sat upright and
Neha looked away. Alok cleared his throat. “I forgot you’re here. What time
is it?”
“It’s a little past ten.” Neha walked away and sat on Alok’s huge chair.
She clicked on the password bar and the cursor flickered on his computer.
“What’s the password, roomie?”
Alok groaned. “I’ll get it for you.” He stood and the bed creaked a sigh
of relief. He came over and punched in the password. “There you go.”
Neha and Alok had stayed up until 2 a.m. discussing what they’d heard
at the Dean’s address last night. Alok slept off soon after, but Neha had
other plans. Fortunately, Alok had left his computer unlocked. Neha had
made full use of its fifty-inch LCD screen. It made life easy to open several
web browser tabs. Neha fell asleep while reading articles and Russian
media coverage about Red Shark. The computer had a timer set to lock
itself after an hour of inactivity.
Sunlight made the room warmer with every passing minute.
“Is there any way to block it on campus?” Alok looked into his phone
and replied to some texts.
“Block what?” Neha asked.
“The Red Shark game. There must be some app its played on, right?”
Alok put away his phone and dragged a small plastic stool close to the
computer and sat on it, inches from Neha.
“You should have stayed up with me to help with my research last
night.” Neha scoffed. “There’s no app.”
Alok furrowed his brows. “But still, there must be a way to block
whatever server it runs on, right?” He scratched his head. “Why can’t we
firewall against IP addresses Red Shark admins use to connect with their
victims?”
“The only way to block the Red Shark game is to shut down the
internet!” Neha slapped her forehead. “I’ll email you links to some articles.
Maybe then Mr. Computer Engineer will understand.”
“Would be nice if you cared to explain.” Alok slouched on one side, his
elbow on his knee and fist buried in his bulging cheek.
Neha rested her chin on her wrist with her elbow on her knee. “There’s
no app or website Red Shark runs on. All it really needs is any kind of
messenger app allowing people to chat and share audio and video files.
Basically, there are only two roles to play the game. Each game needs a Red
Shark admin, known as a curator. Of course, on the other side of the chat,
you have the player who is obviously the victim.”
“Okay. How is the game played?” Alok narrowed his eyes.
“The curators give the players a series of increasingly self-harming
tasks. This goes on for fifty days, one task per day.”
“What kind of self-harm?” Alok winced.
“Well, there’s a whole routine. Starts off easy. Watch a horror video late
at night. Skip all meals for a day. Basic stuff. It gets worse with the game.
Shave off all your hair. Cut yourself. In the final stages, the game requires
the player to carve out a ghastly Red Shark emblem on their skin. That’s
usually the last task before suicide. The only catch is, a curator gives out the
next task only after the previous one is over.”
“Wow, people actually do that? I wouldn’t get past the task that required
me to skip all meals for a day.”
“Lucky you.” Neha meant it more ways than one.
Alok put on his serious face again. “Is the last task always suicide?”
“It’s a suicide challenge, Alok. Of course, the last task is to kill
yourself.”
“Is there no other way to beat the game?”
“The only way the game ends is when the player commits suicide.”
“Then why would anyone sign up to play? Even if they did, why would
anyone go all the way to die?” Alok let out a wry smile. “I can understand
why someone like me from a couple of years ago would do it. Heck, if I’d
discovered this back then, it could actually have been a solution. But surely
everyone isn’t like that.”
“Good point, Alok. All recorded cases show it’s rare for players to drop
out once they begin the game.”
“Okay, take it from the start. How do the curators and players come in
contact in the first place?”
“I hope you’re not thinking about trying it out.” Neha pursed her lips.
“Of course not. Not that I could with my Buddy right inside my room.
And if what you said is true, I wouldn’t get past day 2 or was it day 3 of the
challenge when I’d have to go without food.”
“You better mean it. Okay, here’s how the game begins. First of all,
there’s no way a player can contact a curator directly. They need to leave
some hashtags out on social media and hope a curator approaches them.”
“Can anyone who drops certain hashtags on social media get a curator?”
“Curators don’t respond to every request. They probably only go after
vulnerable, suicidal youth. It’s the curator’s decision whom to accept. As I
said, it’s not just a website where you can sign up.”
“Maybe that’s why the dropout rate is so low once someone begins the
game. Red Shark prioritizes people who’re trying to kill themselves
anyway.”
“Fatima did not want to kill herself.” Neha frowned.
“How do you know she played the Red Shark game for sure?”
“I saw with my own eyes Fatima had the Red Shark-” Neha stopped
herself.
“What?” Alok’s eyes widened. “She cut the insignia upon her skin?”
“Nevermind.”
“No, please tell me. This is important. Did you actually see the Red
Shark carved on her?”
“Alok, drop it. Trust me, I am sure she played Red Shark. Why else
would she kill herself?”
“Okay, for argument’s sake, even if we accept that Fatima played the
game, it only proves she wanted to kill herself! That’s what you just
explained: Red Shark allocates curators only to suicidal, vulnerable folk.”
“Alok, we don’t even know why Red Shark does what it does. All I
know is Fatima would never have killed herself if it weren’t for this game.
You can help me if you want or leave me alone, but don’t question Red
Shark’s involvement in Fatima’s suicide.”
“Alright, ma’am. Sheesh. Tell me more about how do the curators know
whom to approach? As in, how do they pick only the ones they think will
go through with the whole game.”
“Let me show you.” Neha pointed to an article on the screen and
highlighted a paragraph with the mouse. “There are a bunch of hashtags that
kids in Moscow used to attract curators. The hashtags kept changing
whenever they became a little too popular. Look at some of these.”
Alok looked at hashtags. The longer he looked the wider his eyes
became.
#FindMeOAngelOfDeath
#RedSharkIWannaPlay
#LifeSaysGameOver
The list went on.
“So, these are the magic words to summon death.” Alok whistled.
Neha closed the article and continued. “Yes. Players use such hashtags
on social media. Right at the end of depressing, self-loathing posts.”
Neha opened another article. It contained minimal text and lots of
pictures. The text was in Russian. Nothing Google Translate couldn’t fix.
The pictures were screenshots of posts on Facebook, Twitter, and
Instagram. Almost all accounts belonged to Russian teens. Below the
pictures were transcripts of the posts, now translated to English. “These are
the last social media posts of these kids. They all died within two months of
posting.”
“Wow, two months? This one took only fifty days,” Alok said, glancing
through the posts. “Oh shit, I can’t read this! It’s like the final call of a
dying animal begging for a quick death.”
Neha saw fear building up in Alok’s eyes.
Can he handle this?
“Exactly,” she said. “Red Shark’s curators are like vultures. They swoop
down on their victims when they’re at their lowest.”
“But it doesn’t make sense.” Alok scratched his chin. “Anyone can use
these hashtags as a prank. Even if they don’t want to kill themselves.”
“Good point,” Neha said. “A lot of kids in Russia did post for attention
or just plain mischief. That was before the government banned such
hashtags and posts. Without a second warning, the Russian cyber police
arrested kids who continued. To your point, the vast majority of the
prankster kids never got in touch with curators. The curators simply ignored
them.”
“How do the curators decide who gets to play the game?”
“They study their prey. You, of all people, know online privacy is a
myth.”
“That’s why cybersecurity is the shiz.” Alok thumped his chest. His
large stomach wobbled like a bag of jelly.
Neha’s stare brought him back to normal. A good thing. There was no
telling how long the little plastic stool would hold his weight.
Neha continued. “The curators dig out everything about kids who post
these hashtags. Not to mention their families. They curate the list with
devious precision. They reach out to only the most depressed ones. The
ones who can’t wait to die.”
Alok shuddered. “Neha, do you think it’s wise to share this with me?”
“Well, for starters, the starvation task will ensure you don’t go too far in
the game. Should I begin to have second thoughts?”
Alok stuck out his tongue.
“On a serious note, Alok, I’m going to have to trust you. It’s a risk, no
doubt. But you’re strong. I need you to be if you’re going to help me.”
“You’re doing fine by yourself. What can I possibly do?”
“Cybersecurity exists because cyber threats are real. You’re going to
help me with both. What encryption do we use on IIT’s local network? Can
you intercept, decrypt, and copy data shared over our network?”
“You want me to snoop on people’s conversations?” Alok was as
alarmed as amused.
“Yes. Once again, Red Shark isn’t a website or an app. I need you to
catch hashtags or alerting phrases. Curators use WhatsApp, Facebook,
Twitter, Instagram, and similar channels. We’re going to get to their prey
before them, and save them.”
“Great as your plan sound, I could get into serious trouble if I tried,
Neha. Also, let me warn you. Prof. Surendar has designed our IT
infrastructure.”
“So what? You got him his patents, didn’t you? Afraid to outdo your
master?”
“That’s not how it works, Neha. Given enough time and resources, a
fool can build a maze that can prove too much to a wise man.”
“Can you hack Prof. Surendar’s best defensive protocols? I’m going to
assume he’d have put his best foot forward to secure IIT’s network.”
“I can try, but there’s no guarantee of success.”
Neha offered a high-five. “How long will it take?”
Alok slapped her outstretched hand. “A couple of days, at least. But I’ll
make no promises. I’m not sure if it’s even possible. There’s another
problem.”
“Hit me.” Neha braced herself for it. At least Alok agreed to try.
“I know Prof. Surendar’s preferred network security methods. I’m
confident of intercepting messages going in or out of smartphones or
laptops. Provided the devices are using IIT’s wifi network. This won’t work
if someone is on their telecom operator’s internet service. Or if they connect
to a hotspot device.”
“That’s alright Alok. Hardly a problem! What IIT lacks in hostel food
quality, it makes up with its high-speed internet. When was the last time
you disconnected from the campus-wide free wifi? Wait, did they have wifi
so many years ago when you joined IIT?”
“Not a time for that, Neha.” Alok scowled. “Anyway, getting back.
Everyone’s always connected to IIT’s network, but that’s not the problem.”
“Sorry, Alok. Go on.”
“My approach will be to steal encrypted text data from these devices.
Before the data hits third-party encrypted channels of whatever they’re
using — Facebook, WhatsApp, or whatever.”
“Brilliant. That should serve our purpose.”
“Hang on, let me finish. Intercepting encrypted data is useless until I
can decrypt it for you to read and analyze.”
“Aha, so that’s where you might hit a brick wall?”
“Worse. I’ll need a computation heavy decryption attack. Which means
I need to use Prof. Surendar’s supercomputer whenever he’s not around.”
“As long as you avoid him while you snoop around, we’re good to go,
right?”
“It gets worse. Even if I manage to decrypt the messages, it’ll leave a
small, irremovable log on the supercomputer.”
“What does that mean?” Neha’s heart sank, fearing she knew the
answer.
Alok took a deep breath. “In a nutshell, it means there’s a small chance I
will get you what you want. But it also means I’ll get caught as soon as I
do.”
“We. You mean we will be caught.” Neha patted his back.
12
Like Flies
Tuesday, December 17th
Neha grabbed a quick bite at the cafeteria in Fatima’s hostel. She had been
careful to arrive an hour before lunchtime. This way, she would avoid a
horde of hungry students. But she was here for more than cold coffee.
Fatima’s room was still sealed. All the girls from her floor had shifted to the
faculty accommodation block. A good time to search for clues. It was worth
a shot.
The notice board looked odd. Usually flooded with placement notices
and submission deadlines, it had a makeover. Now, most of it displayed
large, pictorial warnings. Followed by instructions straight from Dean
Shekhar’s office. Students were to report all instances of Red Shark
activities or potential players. The Dean promised to read every alert raised
on the IIT students forum. A footer at the bottom of one of the posters
caught Neha’s eye.
This is not a game. You are not alone. Speak up for yourselves and your
buddies.
Neha climbed to the third floor. Red tapes and warning signs blocked entry
into Fatima’s wing. But Neha knew they were nothing more than
psychological barriers. She crouched between two sagging lengths of the
tapes and was soon jut outside Fatima’s room. No latches had been removed
from the doors on this floor as residents had relocated.
The familiar, peculiar creek of Fatima’s door brought back memories.
How the door used to squeal whenever Neha stormed in uninvited! No, they
weren’t just memories. They were painful scars.
Neha opened Fatima’s laptop, which was still plugged in and charging.
Why haven’t the police seized Fatima’s personal belongings for
investigation yet?
She figured Inspector Kamal would only do as the Dean asked. Right
now, he was more concerned with damage control than getting to the
bottom of Fatima’s death. Or perhaps, he feared what the police would
discover if they probed.
Nothing is far-fetched anymore.
In either case, Neha hoped her best friend’s Facebook account would
still be open in a window.
Maybe that’s the furthest we were ready to go in our friendship, eh
Fatima? We stopped short of sharing Facebook passwords.
Fatima’s laptop password, however, was no secret. It hadn’t changed for
years. Neha fought back a tear as she typed it in. The combination of one’s
name and date of birth was a ridiculously simple password to hack. But
Fatima and Neha worked around it by using each other’s first names and
birthdays instead. A simple and effective method. At least they thought so.
Maybe Alok would disagree.
The laptop screen refreshed and the desktop view took a moment to
stabilize. As it did, Neha scanned the room. Her eyes caught a glimpse of
Fatima’s green Adidas shoes in a corner. She did a double-take and noticed
their soles and sides had a coat of dried mud. Neha crouched to examine
them. The left shoe didn’t have its shoelace.
Maybe that’s why she wore different shoes on the day she—
Neha couldn’t finish the sentence, even in her mind. But she was here
for something more important. She returned to the laptop and opened the
web browser. She typed in the URL for Facebook.
“Dammit,” Neha muttered to herself, staring at the login page.
She logged out of Facebook. Who does that?
Neha’s phone rang. Her ringtone was Fatima’s favorite song. Every
small detail was a cruel reminder that Fatima was no more.
“Yes, Vikas?”
“Neha, come to the PlaceComm office. We’ve got a crisis.”
“I’m sure we do. Tell me.”
“I need you to come over right away.” Vikas sounded terrified.
Neha knew Vikas well. She believed he was one of the best Placement
Representatives she’d seen in her four years at IIT. Normally a cool, calm,
and incredibly efficient young man, Vikas was hard to unsettle. Neha had
seen him handle harsh and unreasonable demands from companies during
placements. Vikas did it with grace and the tranquility of a duck on still
water. Even as all others around him crumbled to pressure. Especially when
others crumbled. The StudC had nicknamed him appropriately, much to his
dismay. But the name was unique. It stuck. Vikas was Shock Absorber.
It can’t be good if Shock Absorber’s rattled.
“I’m on my way. Start talking.”
“Neha, four of the final year students who went home after the Dean’s
address have now opted out of placements. No reason was given.”
Neha stopped in her tracks, halfway down the corridor of Fatima’s
wing. “How’s that a problem you can’t handle?”
“One of them committed suicide in his New Delhi apartment.”
“What?” Neha’s jaw dropped.
“He hanged himself from the fan in his bedroom. Right after making
some strange shark symbol. Can you believe it? He carved it on his chest. A
shaving razor covered in his blood lay on the floor.”
Neha’s head spun. “What about the other three?”
“We have alerted their parents. They’re okay for now. Except they’re
acting strange with their families.”
“Acting strange how?”
“They’re refusing meals. Locking themselves up in their rooms for
hours without a word to their families. Stepping out at night and not
returning until noon the next day. That kind of stuff.”
“Does the Dean know?”
“Yes. He said not to worry. Only the students residing on campus are the
StudC’s responsibility.”
Neha uttered a curse. “I feared as much. What more does he need to
pack us all off to our homes now before someone else dies?”
“Too late for that. You know Madhukar Verma, third-year Metallurgy
student from H6?”
“Yes. I remember his name is on the list of students staying back on
campus. What about him?” Neha did not want to know.
“He went to town today morning. Before anyone could stop him, he
jumped on the railway tracks. This was at Kanjurmarg railway station,
moments after the train entered the station.”
“What?”
“It’s going to be a bloodbath in tomorrow’s papers. What’s going on,
Neha? Is this Red Shark thing real? Do you think it’ll stop?”
Neha took a second to clear her throat. “I fear it won’t anytime soon.
Not before a lot of people fall like flies.”
As she ran to meet Vikas, Neha’s mind drifted back to Fatima’s Adidas
shoe with the missing lace. Something felt strange about it.
13
Headless Council
Tuesday, December 17th
Neha saw untouched lunchboxes on a table in the corner of the StudC
office. There was one less lunchbox than the number of members in the
StudC. Another sign the President was no longer considered to be a part of
it. I’m glad I had that sandwich.
“This is out of hand already!” The Dean had his back to the door as
Neha slid in. He bellowed to the StudC members who sat around the large
table. “Where’s Neha?”
“Over here, sir.” Neha shut the door behind her.
“Look where it’s heading, Neha. The national media is undoing what I
took a lifetime to build. IIT’s reputation is in tatters!”
“Aren’t you glad the incident in Chennai is officially India’s first Red
Shark case?” Neha scoffed.
“But the headlines are a lot more sensational when IIT gets a mention!”
The Dean was fuming.
“Neha, we summoned you for a reason. You have proven your ability to
muster the student body in the past,” Prof. Reema Badami said. “We need
them united now more than ever. Sumit has arranged for live press coverage
from the campus. We’ve put together a list of presentable students to tell the
media our institute is taking all the right steps.”
“What do you want me to say?” Neha tilted her head mockingly. “Has
Sumit written a script for me to rehearse?”
“This is useless!” The Dean threw his hands in the air and his silver hair
fluttered. “I told you it was a bad idea. Sumit, just stick to our agreed list.
Strike off Neha’s name.”
“Very good, sir,” Neha said. “You want students to say IIT is doing
everything to fight the Red Shark menace. But all we’re doing is fighting
off bad publicity. When are we going to address the root cause? How long
can we sustain damage control? It’s only a matter of time before another
student jumps on railway tracks.”
“All buddies have instructions to keep a tab on their counterparts.
Twenty-four by seven!” The Dean ran his tongue over his teeth, lips pursed
to hold back his rage. “Inspector Kamal will be on campus too. He said he
wants to talk to you. I don’t know what he’s thinking. You’re the reason this
thing is so messed up anyway. You and your damn friend Fatima!”
Neha did all she could to hold herself back. But it was not enough.
“That’s it, sir. You’ve crossed a line there. I hope Inspector Kamal has a
stronger spine than you.”
“You will not speak to me this way!” The Dean slammed a fist on the
table. “I will have you rusticated!”
“Sure, why not? There’s a solution!” Neha laughed. “Why don’t you
rusticate the entire student body? How can IIT have suicides if it doesn’t
have any students left?”
“That’s it. Neha, you’re dismissed as President of the Students Council
with immediate effect.” Prof. Reema gritted her teeth.
“With immediate effect?” Neha scoffed. “Wasn’t I unofficially removed
even before the Dean addressed the student body?” Neha let out a mocking
laugh. “Everyone found out right then and there, myself included.”
“What do you mean?” Prof. Reema demanded.
“There’s one less lunchbox there.” Neha pointed to the boxes on the
table in the corner. “Even the cafeteria guys know the StudC doesn’t have a
President anymore. Spineless management deserves a headless council.”
14
The Dots
Tuesday, December 17th
Inspector Kamal wiped his brows with a white handkerchief. With the tip of
his shiny black shoe, he toyed with the base of a wooden chair, across the
one he sat on. Alone inside the watchman’s cabin near the main gate, he
watched as Neha hurried his way.
“Didn’t take my advice, did you?” he asked. It was more of a statement.
Neha folded her arms and sat on a steel chair across the Inspector.
“Why are you interfering with the investigation, Neha?”
“Why aren’t you conducting one in the first place, Inspector?”
“What?”
“Have you scanned Fatima’s laptop? Why didn’t the police obtain her
phone records and seize her belongings? It’s like you don’t want any clues.”
Neha’s voice was shaky, but she wasn’t going to cry just yet.
Not until I’ve gotten to the bottom of this, Fatima, I promise you.
“Neha, we’re following due procedure. Everything you’ve said is
already happening in the background.”
“I don’t buy it. Anyway, I understand you have some leads on Red
Shark suicides from other campuses.”
“Yes. It’s spreading like a disease, Neha.” Inspector Kamal glanced at
the notifications on his constantly vibrating phone. He showed her a
glimpse of the cracked screen of his phone. “These are live updates of
attempted suicides from across the country.”
Alarmed by the rate at which his phone was vibrating, Neha sputtered,
“It’s a pandemic. But more cases means more dots to connect. Any
common themes across the suicides?”
Oh shit, what am I becoming? Damn you both, Dean and Prof. Reema.
These dead kids aren’t cases. They’re not dots. They’re real people. Who
killed themselves. As did Fatima.
“Indeed,” Inspector Kamal answered. “Every suicide victim had the Red
Shark insignia carved on the chest, arms, or thighs. Self-inflicted, as evident
from the imperfection of the cuts. Clear signs of hesitation. Expected
though, after all, how can you skin yourself like that and not tremble?”
Inspector Kamal winced.
“Obviously. They must have trembled alright. I don’t get it how one
could not while doing it.” Neha’s mind drifted to the insignia she had seen
on Fatima’s thigh.
But you carved it perfectly. No rough edges along the outline. Not a hint
of hesitation the way you peeled off your skin so cleanly. Why were you so
committed to this horrible task? Did you feel no pain?
Inspector Kamal’s voice brought her back to reality. “Here’s the
interesting part. A lot of the suicide attempts failed. We have the survivors
under observation. Almost all had some association with the Red Shark
game. A few had incomplete versions of the Red Shark insignia carved
upon them. Most admitted to having done strange and horrific tasks.
Maybe, they did it for attention.”
“For attention? Is that your first response to all suicide victims?” Neha
scoffed. “Where’s your compassion? Do you reserve it only for the dead?”
“They’re not suicide victims till they die, are they?” Inspector Kamal
asked.
“That’s where you are wrong, Inspector.” Neha looked up and sighed.
“They’re victims long before they die. Suicide is their gateway. It stops
them from being victims.”
What victimized you, Fatima? Couldn’t you tell me what hurt you so
badly?
The Inspector gasped. “What are you saying, Neha? You sound just like
some of the survivors! Are you feeling, err, depressed?”
Neha smirked her contempt. “Don’t worry about me, Inspector. I’m not
suicidal, in case that’s what you inferred. Tell me more about these students.
What kind of tasks did they do?”
“Well, the usual stuff. Refusing food, blocking communication with
loved ones, staying up late, animal cruelty…”
Animal cruelty. Neha ignored the rest of what he said. Is that why Curie
has been whimpering all these days?
15
The Screenshot
Tuesday, December 17th
Later at night, Neha returned into her room. Alok was at his desk, coding.
His head sunk between his huge shoulders like a rock amidst sand dunes.
His fingers punched on the keyboard. A fluorescent green cursor danced on
the gigantic screen against a black background.
“Alok, have you figured out what encryption protocols operate on IIT’s
local network?”
“Hmm, about that,” Alok said with a shade of disappointment. “I
checked. Prof. Surendar, that sneaky bastard! He’s using a military-grade
encryption protocol. Not surprising, considering the sophisticated research
our professors and Ph.D. students work on. It’s virtually impossible to
decipher what messages our students exchange.”
“Is there any way you can retrieve Fatima’s Facebook password?”
Alok shrugged. “If I could hack Facebook like that don’t you think the
Dean’s profile pic would be a cartoonish penis?”
Neha giggled. “Let’s just say I’m glad you can’t do it then. But
seriously, is there no way whatsoever to hack Fatima’s password?”
“Hey, my work’s a lot harder than it seems to Mechanical engineers.”
“Nevermind. Can anybody else help?” Neha was exasperated.
“It’s a long shot, but I can do it using the IT Representative’s account
with admin privileges. But we’ll need her to cooperate.”
“Don’t involve the IT Rep. Riddhi won’t help. Besides, I don’t want to
get her in trouble. Is there no other way?” Neha asked.
Alok shook his head. “Neha, where technology fails, psychology opens
doors. Most hackers in the world use their target’s behavioral profile to
hack passwords anyway.”
“What do you mean?”
“Think about it. Isn’t it easier to hack a security question than a
password? You knew Fatima well, so you’re our best bet to break into her
account.”
“She never used security questions. So, I tried guessing her password.
Combinations of her birthday and nicknames, names of her past pets.
Nothing worked.” Neha’s head sank. How could she reveal to Alok that
she’d tried combinations of her own birthday and nicknames as well?
I tried everything. Fatima, I took the liberty of assuming you’d use my
birthday as your Facebook password. I was sure it’d work.
Alok slapped his palms on his knees in despair. “I guess we’ve hit a
dead-end then.”
“No, Alok. We have to try. If not through Fatima’s account, then
through mine.”
“What do you mean?” Alok’s eyebrows rose.
Neha pulled out her phone and opened her WhatsApp conversation with
Fatima. “Give me your data cord. I want to transfer every screenshot Fatima
sent me to your computer. Let’s put this large LCD to use and fish the
screenshots for clues.”
Alok obliged. In a minute, the media transfer progress bar on the
computer signaled 100% completion.
“Zoom in and play the images on slideshow mode.” Neha’s heart
pulsated with as much excitement as with the fear of failure.
“What do you expect to find that you wouldn’t have seen already?”
Alok’s chubby hands worked with extreme dexterity. In moments, he
segregated all selfies, screenshots, and memes that Fatima had sent Neha.
“Fatima wasn’t on Instagram or Twitter,” Neha explained. She watched
as Alok set up the images in full-screen mode. “So, there’s a high chance
she played the Red Shark game through Facebook Messenger.”
“Possible.” Alok knitted his brows and looked at the images.
“The good part is, Facebook Messenger leaves an ongoing chat’s icon
on your phone screen. Until you explicitly drag it away to make it go from
your home screen.”
“Alright, go on.” Alok nodded. “Where’s this going?”
“It’s your idea, silly. I’m no hacker, but if you’re right, a little bit of
psychology will do. Most of us usually share screenshots on impulse, often
giving away more than intended as a result. That’s what we’re going to look
out for.”
“An unintentional detail or clue from an innocent screenshot?” Alok
asked.
“Bang on. That’s the hope.” Neha squinted her eyes as a small circular
icon on one of the images caught her eye before Alok moved to the next
one. “But it may well be looking for a needle in a haystack, with a good
chance there’s no needle at all.”
Alok groaned.
After an hour, they had sifted through hundreds of screenshots. The
exercise was beginning to look hopeless. Alok had given up long ago. But
Neha insisted they continue.
Four hundred images later, Neha’s enthusiasm was no more than a
flickering candle atop a hill on a stormy night. Alok yawned.
Maybe I should have listened to him.
That’s when she saw it.
“Wait, go back!” she shouted.
Alok rolled back a few images until Neha gestured him to stop.
This is it! Will this screenshot do the trick?
It was a screenshot Fatima had shared three weeks ago. Neha pulled her
face close to the humungous LCD screen. She stared carefully at the
Facebook Messenger ongoing chat icon in the top right corner. The profile
pic was a caricature of a wolf, wearing thick glasses and a cozy, cotton
headgear. It reminded Neha of the Big Bad Wolf disguised as Grandma
from the story of Red Riding Hood.
More than the image, the bold initials at the bottom edge of the profile
pic caught her attention: BFW.
BFW. What is BFW?
Then it struck Neha like a bolt of lightening.
The Red Shark insignia on Fatima’s thigh from that day at the mortuary
contained these letters. The strange characters Fatima had cut upon herself,
in the center of the horrid insignia.
AOD. NF. BFW. I wonder what they stand for.
“What is it?” Alok asked.
“Nothing,” Neha lied. “I’m going out for a walk.”
16
Plastic Bag
Tuesday, December 17th
The crescent moon in the dark sky reflected as a weak shimmer on the
lake’s still surface. Neha lit a cigarette and sat on the creaky wooden jetty,
her feet dangling inches above the water. Fifty meters away, an elderly
watchman craned his neck to see if Neha was drunk. There had been cases
of drunk students falling into the lake. As the watchman walked closer,
Neha waved her hand and assured him she was sober. “Just need some time
alone to think.”
Neha scooted along the soggy wooden planks until she found a
relatively dry spot. She took off her shoes, placed them next to her, and
touched the water with her toes. Across the lake, a hundred meters away,
the auditorium stood out like a fortress against the night sky. Dull orange
lights flickered hopelessly along the stone path. The cobblestoned path
connected the auditorium to the academic block. A small bridge along the
way completed the route over another small lake.
Neha pulled out her phone and created a fake account on Facebook. It
had no profile pic and obviously no friends.
I need a good username. Nothing that’ll connect back to Fatima or me,
but something you’d expect the curators to hop on.
Neha thought of the profile picture in the screenshot Fatima had sent
her. The caricature of the Big Bad Wolf with the initials ‘BFW’.
What does it stand for? Shouldn’t Big Bad Wolf be BBW? Then why
BFW? What does F stand for?
Neha thought of a word.
You’re a Bad F-ing Wolf. But no, your victims wouldn’t trust a name like
that. What does that make you? The Big Friendly Wolf? Whatever you call
yourself, you’re the Bad F-ing Wolf to me. I know exactly what username
I’m going to take.
Neha hit the confirm button to finish creating the fake account. A wry
smile curled up her lips as she stared at her username.
I’m Dead Riding Hood. Let’s play. Time for a post. What were the
hashtags those kids used to attract the curators?
A few moments later, Dead Riding Hood’s first post went live on
Facebook. Neha refreshed the page and waited.
This is hopeless. Will it even work?
She frowned at what she’d posted, feeling immensely stupid.
I feel worthless #CuratorFindMe #FreeMe
Maybe I should message the Bad F-ing Wolf. But how do I find his account?
Neha searched for each of the phrases in the search bar for finding new
people on Facebook. She tried combinations.
BFW
Big Friendly Wolf
Bad Fiery Wolf
Bloody Freaky Wolf
Nothing.
She waited with bated breath each time as the search results populated.
Much to her dismay, hundreds of results, mostly fake accounts, popped
up. None had the profile picture of the Big Bad Wolf she’d seen on Fatima’s
screenshot.
This is useless.
A whimper took her by surprise. Neha turned around. It was Curie.
“Hey girl, how are you?” Neha patted Curie’s head and scratched her
behind her ears.
Curie groaned and restlessly roamed around the length of the jetty. After
several rounds, she stuck her head between ropes along the jetty in a corner.
She whimpered pitiably and stuck her small, round, black nose as close to
the water as possible.
Neha feared the little dog would fall into the lake. She rushed and
picked her up. “Stop it, girl, you don’t want to fall in that cold water so late
at night.”
Curie struggled to break free and ran off the jetty. Still whimpering, she
marched to and fro across a small patch along the edge of the lake. Her
squeals left no doubt how frustrated she was. Her eyes showed pain. As if
to blame Neha for not understanding what she wanted.
“Are you hungry?” Neha pulled out a cookie from her pocket. “Here
you go!” She broke a piece off and tossed it toward Curie.
Curie didn’t even look at it. Instead, she charged at Neha, almost angry.
She caught Neha’s sweatshirt between her teeth. Careful though not to hurt
Neha, Curie tugged at it with all her might. Neha gave in. She stood and
followed the dog, who didn’t let go of her sweatshirt until they were off the
jetty. In a moment, they were close to the edge of the lake where Curie had
done her little patrol seconds ago.
“What is it, girl? Why are you acting this way?” Neha examined the
area.
A line of bricks had been loosely buried into the soft soil all along the
lake. To prevent the water from overflowing during the monsoon. Nothing
seemed amiss. Yet, it was clear Curie was trying to show her something and
looked agitated. “I don’t know what you’re looking for, girl.”
Curie kept pulling at Neha’s sweatshirt until Neha finally saw what she
wanted to show her all this time. The neat line of bricks was missing
exactly one brick. It stood out like a gap in a perfect set of teeth.
“Someone took a brick out. Is that what you wanted to show me, girl?”
Neha pointed to the gap and put her other hand on Curie’s head.
Curie grunted and whimpered more. “You’re worried the lakes will
overflow because of this missing brick?” Neha laughed. “Don’t worry, girl,
I got this.” She picked up a small rock lying in the grass and placed it in the
gap left behind by the missing brick. “We’re safe from flooding now,
sweetheart! Is this what you wanted me to do?”
Curie wasn’t pleased. She whelped in despair and let go of Neha’s
sweatshirt. Trotting on her four with her tail tucked between her legs, she
hobbled away to the auditorium. She had given up on Neha.
I don’t understand, girl. Are you unwell? Do you want me to feed your
pups?
Neha sighed and followed the dog. She knew Curie’s pups were in a
cardboard box in the storeroom, adjacent to the auditorium’s backstage
area.
Ah, maybe you’re saying they’re hungry. I’ll grab some biscuits and
milk from the night canteen.
She picked up a pack of glucose biscuits and two paper cups of milk.
The canteen guy understood it was for Curie. He offered a plastic bag full
of breadcrumbs for free. Armed with food, Neha went to the auditorium.
Sure enough, Curie was in the storeroom, whimpering beside her
cardboard box. Neha peeped in and saw four puppies.
Weren’t there six of them?
Neha placed the milk cups beside the box and added breadcrumbs.
“Aw, is this what you wanted me to do?”
Curie ignored the food and growled. Neha had never seen her behave so
unfriendly before. What could she do to soothe the poor creature?
Neha’s phone beeped a notification. It was Facebook. Her Dead Riding
Hood account. Strange, she had logged out of her own account, right before
creating Dead Riding Hood’s account. That was an hour ago on the jetty.
She hadn’t logged in with her real account ever since. Dead Riding Hood
had no friends. It was unlikely anyone had seen her first post.
Don’t tell me it’s a Candy Crush notification! Wouldn’t surprise me they
spam sock puppet accounts.
The answer came in an instant. How she wished it was Candy Crush
instead. Someone had read her post. Someone who was following the
hashtags. Neha froze until the screen went dark again. She tapped on it. It
took a second to light up. In that brief moment, she caught a glimpse of her
reflection. Her reflection stared back with an intrigued expression. Then she
read it.
BFW likes your post “I feel worthless…”
She clicked on BFW’s profile. It was the same guy alright. That wolf
dressed as grandma. No doubt it was the same BFW she had seen in
Fatima’s screenshot. Neha zoomed into the profile pic.
Behind cartoonish eyes hid sinister intentions. Neha could have sworn
her phone’s screen froze for an entire minute.
What the hell was that?
Her screen lit again. Alok had warned her that curators target victims
with malware and viruses. He said it could happen even before exchanging
their first texts. Just then, a blood-curdling growl cut across the room.
Curie whelped in agony, having discovered something behind the
cardboard box. Neha ran and crouched by her side to see.
No mother should have to bear this.
Neha dropped her phone at the sight. Curie had pulled something out
from behind the box. It confirmed Neha’s fears. Curie’s whimpers bore
uncontrollable agony.
Someone had put a plastic bag over one of Curie’s puppies. Whoever it
was, they had fastened it in place with rubber bands wrapped around the
poor creature’s neck. A brutal way to suffocate the puppy’s life.
Neha tore off the plastic bag. The puppy was dead. Despite being so, it
felt warm in Neha’s cold hands.
That’s why Curie was so upset. Someone’s killed two of her puppies.
Looks like she discovered this one only just now. She was worried about the
other one all along. Is that what she wanted to tell me at the lake?
Neha rushed to the box and saw the remaining four puppies huddled
together. They sensed another of their siblings was no more. Neha scratched
Curie behind the ears. Dejected that another one of her babies was gone, she
fell to the ground.
Inspector Kamal had said that animal abuse was one of the tasks in the
Red Shark challenge. This could mean only one thing.
A Red Shark victim is on the move.
But nobody apart from the Dramatics Club members knew Curie’s pups
were here.
One of them is about to commit suicide.
17
Circus Lion
Tuesday, December 17th
It was almost midnight. Neha didn’t care how late it was when she pulled
out the Dean’s number on her speed dial and gave him a call. It took only
two rings before the Dean answered.
“What is it, Neha?” The Dean’s voice wasn’t groggy.
“Sorry for calling you so late,” Neha said. “I hope you weren’t
sleeping.”
“You’re not the only one spending sleepless nights over this crisis,
Neha.” Dean Shekhar had as much sarcasm as condescension in his retort.
“Alright. I called because this couldn’t wait. A student is about to
commit suicide.”
There was silence at the other end for a moment before the Dean spoke.
“Who?”
“I’m not sure, but it will be someone from the Dramatics Club.”
“How do you know?”
“Only the Dramatics folks knew where Curie hid her puppies. One of
them has just been killed.”
“You called me at midnight to tell me a puppy is dead?”
“Yes. And unless we find out who did it, the person concerned will
commit suicide.”
“Neha, aren’t you taking your theories too far? What’s a dead puppy got
to do with a student suicide?”
“Until you accept Red Shark is taking away lives at IIT, it’s fruitless to
explain further.”
“Neha, there is no evidence of Red Shark victims on our campus.”
“You were in denial about Fatima, but how long can you sustain? Tell
me why Madhukar Verma jumped in front of a train at Kanjurmarg station
earlier today?”
“He had a terrible academic record, Neha. PlaceCom had been warning
him to buckle up since the last two semesters. Are you suggesting he played
the Red Shark game?”
“Yes. I have proof. I know he had a Red Shark insignia on his chest.”
A long silence from the other end had Neha biting her lip with tension.
At last, the Dean barked. “How do you know that?”
“Prof. Reema told me when we spoke earlier today.”
“What! How does she know about the insignia on Madhukar’s body?”
Dean Shekhar’s voice left no doubt he was trembling at the other end.
“I assumed you told her,” Neha said, choosing her words carefully and
speaking very slowly.
“No. I didn’t. That damn Kamal must have blabbered again. I can’t trust
him. But I’m disappointed with Reema for telling you, of all people.”
“You needn’t be. Prof. Reema’s not to blame.” Neha’s voice rang with
aplomb.
“What? Then why did she tell you about Madhukar’s Red Shark
insignia?”
“She didn’t. You just did. Thanks for confirming my suspicion.”
There was a seemingly endless silence for several seconds. Neha broke
it.
“Regardless, it means you’re aware Red Shark has struck our campus.”
Dean Shekhar was grinding his teeth audibly over the phone. “Neha, get
to the point.”
“Pleasure to do so. Madhukar was a victim of the Red Shark game. I
hope you’ve begun your research. The final few tasks before suicide
involve cruelty to animals.”
“Okay. So the dead puppy is a serious matter. Go on. I’m with you.”
“Finally. I bet you know Fatima was a Red Shark victim as well.”
“She wasn’t. Inspector Kamal told me—”
“Doesn’t matter what he told you. Here’s what I need you to do.” Neha
felt goosebumps at speaking to the Dean this way. Even better, he didn’t
interrupt her. “For starters,” Neha said, more confidently than she’d felt in
days. “I need you to get me the CCTV footage from all cameras outside
each of the auditorium’s doors. Footage from the last couple of hours
should do. The puppy killer struck not too long ago.”
“Neha, I don’t know if that’s the best idea.” The Dean sounded meek
both in his choice and delivery of words.
Relieved that she had got him to admit Red Shark had penetrated IIT,
she exhaled. Better still, he had just confirmed Neha’s theory that Madhukar
was also a victim of the deadly suicide game.
“What do you suggest we do, sir?” Neha was impatient to listen to his
suggestion and disregard it all the same.
He’s still the Dean, after all.
“How about we alert all students and ask them to drop whatever they’re
doing? Let’s get them to submit a status report on their buddies
immediately.” The Dean sounded like a fresher asking the StudC President
for permission.
Neha wanted to scoff, but she owed the Dean some slack. “Sir, the way
this is going, I wouldn’t be surprised if buddies soon begin to help each
other commit suicide. It’d give a whole new meaning to the concept of
Suicide Buddies, wouldn’t it?” It was the kind of thing Alok would say.
“Trust me. Forget the Buddy system for now. We have to catch the guys
who killed Curie’s puppies.”
“Puppies? There’s more than one dead puppy?”
“Only one that I know of. But another one’s missing. I have a feeling
the first one died some time ago. Curie’s been looking for it for over a
week.”
“Okay. I’ll get the CCTV footage sent to my office. Meet me there in an
hour?”
“Yes. Thank you, sir.” Neha meant it. “I’ll summon the entire Dramatics
Club to your office. Let them wait outside while we review the CCTV
footage.”
“Yeah, if you suspect one of them is going to attempt suicide, it’s best
we keep them right under our noses.”
Neha hung up the call, uncertain whether the Dean was really going to
help. At least there was reason enough to give it a shot. On the campus, he
was the lion, the king of all beasts at IIT. But even the mighty roaring lion
can perform tricks in a circus. Under the right circumstances. Neha had just
created a situation where he’d play along.
18
More Roommates
Wednesday, December 18th
At ten past midnight, Neha was in the auditorium storeroom with an
inconsolable Curie. Neha wrapped up the last of her calls to trusted friends
in the Dramatics Club. Including their President, Akriti Mishra.
“Yes Akriti, get everyone, even the newest members of the Dramatics
Club to the Dean’s office right away. Make sure nobody’s left out.”
“What’s going on, Neha? You’re freaking me out! Are we in trouble?
You know none of us had anything to do with Fatima’s death—”
“I know. Just do as I ask, Akriti. I’ll explain everything. Trust me, this is
for the safety of the Drams Club. Nobody blames any of you for what
happened to Fatima.”
“But there are whispers! Fatima was alright until she finally agreed to
an on-stage appearance with the Drams Club. I’ve heard rumors of a few
folks blaming us for her suicide.”
“Akriti, relax. Just come to the Dean’s office. With everyone remotely
associated with Drams.”
“But everyone’s supposed to be with their buddies all the time. Do you
want me to—”
“Yes, let the Drams folks get their Buddies. There’s no problem if any
extras show up. But if anyone from Drams doesn’t show up, it’s on you,
Akriti. I will blame you for the consequences.”
“What consequ—”
Neha hung up the phone. Akriti was good at heart, but her indecision
and hesitation annoyed Neha no end at the moment.
A strange quality for someone who speaks so flawlessly on stage. Then
again, we all wear masks. I always thought Akriti wore it best on stage.
Clearly Fatima hid feelings much better. Even from me. It was fitting that
Fatima was supposed to play the lead role for Mood M’s finale.
In another forty-five minutes, the Dean would have arranged the CCTV
footage. Enough time to resume studying BFW’s profile. Curie pressed her
cold nose against Neha’s leg. Neha squatted and took Curie’s head on her
lap. Then she opened Facebook and clicked on the notification.
I’m glad you’re playing along, you Bad F-ing Wolf.
She opened his profile page. She didn’t need to zoom into the
screenshot Fatima had sent her to make sure; it was unmistakably the same.
The username was BFW. In brackets, the nickname indicated what it stood
for. Big Fuzzy Wolf.
You’re still Bad F-ing Wolf to me.
The account had no friends. It wasn’t a longtime account either; BFW
had joined Facebook three months ago. Alok had been right about sock
puppet accounts. Often created for mischief orchestrated from behind the
veil of anonymity. As expected, sock puppet accounts had minimal personal
details. With no friend list, such accounts rarely posted anything. Usually,
sock puppet accounts served to send a couple of personal messages. Or to
post in a group or two. Almost always, they’d be soon deleted by the
creator, to avoid getting caught. Ideal for trolling political figures, actors,
religious pages, or anyone on social media. But of course, sock puppet
accounts also had a rather sinister application. They were perfect to
administer suicide games.
Time to fight fire with fire.
The battle of the sock puppets was going to begin.
Neha took a shot. She opened a chat in Messenger with the account and
typed a private message.
Dead Riding Hood: Thanks for liking my post. Are you a curator? Can you
help me?
If BFW had seen and liked her original post, there was a good chance he
would reply. At least that was the hope. Neha’s eyes danced restlessly on
the screen while her fingers refreshed her chat window.
Forty minutes passed but no reply came back. It was almost 1 a.m.
A flurry of texts from her friends in the Dramatics Club distracted her.
They were mostly texts from the Dramatics guys who were about to arrive
at the Dean’s office. Along with their buddies.
Neha called Akriti. “I’m on my way to the Dean’s office. Hope you’ll
have everyone assembled before I get there.” Neha looked at Curie as she
spoke to Akriti.
I will not let any more of your babies die.
“Yeah, Neha, relax,” Akriti’s voice buzzed over her speakers.
“Everyone’s accounted for, except Arvind.”
“Arvind?” Neha’s eyes widened.
“Yeah, but don’t worry. He’s usually late whenever I call him for
rehearsals.”
“This isn’t a rehearsal. Bring him with you, Akriti. Hurry.”
“Yep, I’m on my way to his room. He’s usually high around this time.”
“Get him here even if you have to drag him. See you soon.” Neha hung
up before Akriti could reply.
She had time for one more phone call before starting for the Dean’s
office. “Alok,” she said as soon as he answered. “Come to the audi
storeroom. You have two minutes.”
“What is it? Are you alright?”
“Yeah, I’m okay. Gotta head to the Dean’s office. Need you to pick up
something and take back it to our room.”
“Sure, what is it?” Alok asked.
“Get ready for five more roommates.” Neha hung up just as Alok
cursed.
Curie understood what Neha meant. For the first time that night, she
wagged her tail weakly and licked Neha’s hands. Her squeal drowned into a
whimper as her snout sank into Neha’s lap.
19
Cold Gaze
Wednesday, December 18th
“Anything?” Dean Shekhar bit his lip.
A dull buzz of crickets came in along with the cool night breeze from
the trees outside the Dean’s office.
The Dean stood with his hands on his hips. His seat was still warm
when Neha took it. She squinted as her eyes darted across the large monitor
in the Dean’s office.
“Give me a second,” she said. “Okay, I’ll work on the segments around
the time I found Curie’s dead puppy.” Her fingers danced on the keyboard
as her other hand moved the mouse cursor. There was more anxiety than
purpose in her actions.
The Dean sighed in the background. Neha toggled the CCTV footage
several minutes forward and backward. A minute later, she found the
frames where she was walking into the auditorium with food for the
puppies.
“Alright, it’s got to have happened sometime before this.”
“How can you be sure?” The Dean leaned in over Neha’s shoulder.
“The dead puppy was still warm when I found it. It was alive not too
long before.”
“Okay, let’s see who went in or out the audi then. I hope it won’t be too
many people.”
“It won’t. Nobody’s been practicing after—” Neha stopped short of
speaking aloud. She completed the sentence in her mind.
After Fatima’s death.
She was right. The footage proved it. Nobody had entered the
auditorium for as long as three hours before she had. She asked the Dean to
give her footage from three other CCTV cameras. Same result.
Nothing. No one.
“This is useless. Do we have footage from the backdoor entrance?”
Neha slammed the mouse down with dismay and crossed her arms.
“I’ve given you all the footage we’ve got.” The Dean shrugged.
“But there’s no footage of the backdoor entrance.”
“The security guard told me that CCTV camera hasn’t been operational
since the last rains.” The Dean looked away and scratched the back of his
head.
“Did we ever plan to fix it?” Neha tilted her head mockingly. She was
loving this shift in their power equation. Alok would have high-fived her
for her tone alone.
I better not push it, though.
“So, what do we do?” Dean Shekhar ignored her question.
“We have no choice. Without visual proof, we’ll need to speak to each
of the Dramatics Club folks.” Neha stood and stretched her arms.
She stomped on her way out of the office. Dean Shekhar followed. Neha
felt the stares of the fifty-odd students standing in the corridor. She glanced
every face, looking for Akriti. She wasn’t there.
“Where’s Akriti?” Neha asked.
“Akriti was here sometime back,” Sana, a plump girl part of the
backstage crew replied. “She left five minutes ago to fetch Arvind. They
must be on their way.”
“Is anyone else missing?” Dean Shekhar looked at his watch.
Neha looked at her phone screen. It was a quarter past two. “Everyone
was to be here by now.”
The Dramatics Club members murmured among themselves. “But we’re
all here. Only Akriti and Arvind to go.”
Neha opened her call history and redialed Akriti’s number. It took only
two rings before she got an answer. “Where are you?” Neha exhaled with
relief. She accidentally hit the speaker button. Everyone present heard
Akriti’s voice boom through.
“I’ve got hold of Arvind.”
“Is he alright?” Neha’s heart pounded like a hammer.
“Never looked better. Found him rolling a joint in his room. We’re on
our way.”
Neha heaved a sigh of relief as she hung up. But her relief was short-
lived.
I could be wrong. Maybe it wasn’t a Drams Club member who killed
Curie’s pup.
“Hey,” a groggy voice pierced the cold air from the back of the corridor.
A dark figure stumbled up the stairs. “I heard my name! I’m here.”
Neha’s jaw dropped. It was Arvind. He was alone.
“Who the hell did she say she was with?” Arvind dragged his feet and
joined the rest of the confounded students.
Neha looked at the Dean. “We’re too late.”
“You mean…”
“Yes. It’s going to be her.” Neha fell to her knees.
“Who’s her buddy?” Dean Shekhar bit his lips while rubbing his sweaty
palms on his trousers.
“Me,” Arvind replied, shaking his head to fight off the high. “I haven’t
seen her all day.”
Neha looked with defeat in her eyes at the sea of confused faces of the
Dramatics Club members. Her next words were a mere formality. “Alert the
guards at Akriti’s hostel. Call an ambulance.”
“But she just answered your call! She must be alright.” The Dean flung
his hands in the air.
“That’s the hope. And precisely the reason why I asked for an
ambulance.”
Neha’s stomach churned, afraid it was too late already.
As if to reinforce her fears, her cellphone rang. It was Alok. Fatima’s
favorite song, Neha’s ringtone, boomed on as Neha hesitated to answer. The
ringtone echoed off damp walls, amidst a stunned silence and vacant stares
from all.
“Yes, Alok?” Neha sputtered into her phone.
“I just remembered Curie had six puppies,” Alok’s panting voice buzzed
over the device. “But I only found four in the box when I took them to our
room. I’m going back to the audi storeroom. The last two should be in there
somewhere, right?”
Neha closed her eyes. “I’ll see you there.”
Minutes later, Neha ran into Alok in the audi storeroom. The Dean and a
few students had followed Neha. Arvind flicked on the stage lights. That’s
when they all saw it.
Akriti hung from an unforgiving rope around her neck. One end of the
rope was in a double knot around the sturdy wooden beam ten feet above
the storeroom’s floor.
Despite the half dozen people in there, it was as if Akriti’s lifeless, cold
gaze sought Neha and locked into her eyes. A Red Shark insignia bled
droplets of blood from Akriti’s pale arm. It dripped and formed a small pool
of blood beside the wooden stool that lay sideways a few feet away.
20
Real Account
Wednesday, December 18th
“Somebody get her down.” The Dean looked away.
Neha walked up to the wooden stool lying sideways on the floor. As she
did, her head grazed past Akriti’s dangling, bare feet. Propping the stool up
without wasting a moment, she set it up. Just as Akriti would have moments
before. Right before fastening the noose around her neck and kicking the
stool away below her feet.
Arvind, by now fully in his senses, climbed onto the stool while Neha
held it in place. Without a moment of hesitation, Arvind held the knot of the
noose behind Akriti’s neck. Alok grabbed Akriti’s lifeless waist and hoisted
her a few inches to allow Arvind to remove the noose. A moment later the
boys laid her body gently on the floor while others came in closer to form a
circle around it.
Neha knelt and felt Akriti’s pulse, aware it was futile. “She’s dead.”
It was only after her grim declaration that a few opened their mouths
while others fell to their knees.
“Has the ambulance arrived on campus?” Neha asked.
“It’s on its way,” a voice said from the stunned group.
Minutes later, the paramedics arrived. They carried Akriti’s body into
the ambulance waiting outside, double-parked. Right at the auditorium’s
main entrance.
“That’s the second time this week,” a paramedic said gruffly as he
slammed shut the ambulance’s rear door. “What’s going on here?”
Dean Shekhar said nothing.
Amidst the deafening silence, Neha’s phone buzzed a notification from
Facebook Messenger. Neha and Alok noticed the icon of the sender on her
lock-screen for a flash before the screen went dark again.
“Is that who I think it is?” Alok’s eyes widened as his voice shrank to a
whisper. “Holy shit, it’s the same profile we saw on Fatima’s screenshot!”
“What?” Neha muttered as she slid her phone into her pocket.
“You’re texting the curator who contacted Fatima.” Alok held Neha’s
arm firmly and they walked away from the rest.
When they were out of earshot from the others, Neha pulled out her
phone and unlocked her screen. Alok was right. BFW had replied to her
message.
Dead Riding Hood: Thanks for liking my post. Are you a curator? Can you
help me?
BFW: Only if you use your real account.
“Who the hell is Dead Riding Hood?” Alok asked while staring at the
screen for a good few seconds before looking up.
Neha’s eyes met Alok’s. “It was worth a shot. I created a sock puppet
account to lure the curator. Honestly, I hadn’t expected a reply.”
“Neha, that was a terrible idea. What are you even going to say to him?”
She didn’t respond but instead typed her reply. Alok looked on.
Dead Riding Hood: Are you telling me your parents named you Big Fuzzy
Wolf? I thought real accounts weren’t your thing.
BFW: You want my help, so play by my rules. The foremost rule is to use
your real account.
Dead Riding Hood: What if I refuse?
BFW: Then you’ll never know what your best friend told me before killing
herself.
“What the hell?” Neha looked at Alok. “How does he know she was my
best friend?”
Alok wiped his brow with the back of his hand. “I have no idea. Neha, you
should stop texting him. Let’s go back to our room and think this through.”
Neha stared at her screen. A cocktail of anger, confusion, sorrow, and
adrenaline flooded her system. As if he had sensed it, BFW sent another
message.
BFW: Of course, you can ignore me and never find out why Fatima killed
herself. Here’s how we’ll proceed if you wish to know the truth. Add your
real account to this chat, and then delete your fake account. Knowing the
truth starts with readying yourself to face it first. Needless to say, no
cheating! You’ll have to do it alone. Oh, one more thing.
He waited for a reply before proceeding.
Neha: What?
BFW: If I were you, I’d look over my shoulder and get some privacy while
texting.
Neha whisked her phone into her pocket and turned around to stare at Alok.
His face was ghostly-white. Neha’s lips trembled. “How does he know I’m
reading these texts along with you?”
“Funny you should ask.” Alok held Neha’s hand and they began
walking toward the Dean. He lowered his voice. “I told you Red Shark
curators probably install malware on their victim’s phone. With the right
kind of virus, it’s child’s play to spy on the target. Your phone’s selfie cam,
location sensors, microphone — they’re going to work against you now.
You’d do well to get a new phone. Actually, even that may not help.”
“What the hell?” Neha began but Alok held a lip to his finger, shushing
her as he did. Neha continued in hushed tones with furrowed brows. “But I
didn’t click on any link or submit any password anywhere! How did the
malware get into my phone?”
“There are many ways he could have done it. Let’s say goodbye to the
Dean and head back to our room. I think I’ve got a theory on how he
infected your phone.”
21
Double-Edged
Wednesday, December 18th
Alok logged on and opened multiple browser windows on his computer.
“How do you pronounce it again?” Neha scratched her head.
“Steganography,” Alok said it for her again, this time a lot slower.
“Defined as the practice of concealing a file within another file. Think of it
as a modern Trojan Horse.”
“Got it,” Neha said.
“With the right skill and tools, it’s theoretically possible to do it for any
combination of filetypes. It could be a text message hidden into an image.
Or a video weaved into a text file. The person receiving the file won’t
suspect a thing. He can’t read the concealed information.”
“But his phone’s or laptop’s operating system can.” Neha ran her tongue
over her teeth.
“Exactly. The target thinks he’s clicking on a photo. But he’s actually
triggering the virus as it starts to take over his operating system.”
That’s why my phone froze when I clicked on BFW’s profile pic. That’s
when he got me.
Neha read aloud the words from the webpage open on Alok’s screen.
“Steganography gets its name from the Greek word steganographia.
Steganós means ‘covered or concealed’, and graphia means ‘writing’.”
After she finished, Alok closed the browser’s windows. “Your phone is
his eyes and ears. Let’s keep our voices down. The microphone won’t catch
what we say as long as your phone’s inside your pocket. He knows your
location at all times thanks to the inbuilt GPS.”
Neha felt her phone deep inside her pocket. It felt much colder than ever
before.
“What if I change my phone?”
“It’s no use. The virus spreads into your email, social media, and cloud
storage. If you get a new device and access any of these, the infection will
repeat. You wouldn’t notice a thing. Think of it as a ghost permanently
haunting your electronic devices.”
Great. Just like how Fatima haunts my mind.
“I’ll figure out where BFW operates from,” Alok said. “Till then it’s
best you don’t reply to his messages.” His mouse clicks sounded like
suppressed machinegun fire.
Neha nodded.
Alok’s stumpy fingers danced across the keyboard. He toggled
windows, while simultaneously typing commands. His code appeared as
green text on a black background. In a moment, he was in the zone. It’d
take an earthquake to bring him out of his shell of concentration.
Sorry Alok, I have to do this.
Regardless of Alok’s warning, Neha was going to reply if BFW
messaged her.
Now’s my chance.
In an instant, she slipped out her phone. Alok didn’t notice. Neha’s
focus converged on her phone. Before she knew it, the chat with BFW was
open. She added a new participant.
Neha Sharma has been added to the group chat.
As if he had been waiting, BFW replied merely seconds later.
BFW: Very good, Neha. Time to put Dead Riding Hood to rest.
Neha complied. She deleted her fake account. It was arguably one of the
shortest durations a sock puppet account had ever been in existence. When
she returned to the chat, she saw the corresponding notification.
Dead Riding Hood is no longer a participant in the chat.
Neha: Okay. Now what?
BFW: Before that, tell me why did you use a fake account?
Neha: Would you have replied to my real account?
BFW: Exactly as I suspected. You weren’t even sad when you posted that.
Neha: Fatima was my best friend. Obviously, her death broke me.
BFW: But you didn’t post only to share your feelings. You did it to lure me.
Neha: Do you admit to killing her?
BFW: You’re more fun than I thought. Calm down. You’re grieving. I’m
sure you’re aware of the five stages. It begins with denial.
Neha: What denial? Fatima is dead. I saw the Red Shark insignia on her
body.
BFW: Ah, there’s a cute story behind her insignia. Anyway, where did I say
you’re in denial about Fatima’s suicide? You’re in denial about her killer.
You refuse to accept she killed herself. You need someone to blame.
Neha: Well, someone is responsible.
BFW: You bet. You’d never guess who it is! But you asked for it. Fatima
told me she did it because of you.
“What the hell?” Neha said aloud.
“What now?” Alok groaned and rolled his eyes before latching them
back onto his computer screen. “I hope you aren’t texting that creep.”
“Of course not,” Neha muttered. She didn’t care how unconvincing she
sounded.
Neha: Your mind games won’t work on me. You killed her. I’m going to find
out how.
BFW: That’s easy. I’ll tell you everything. All you have to do is a simple
task to continue.
Neha: What kind of task? Am I playing the Red Shark game?
Of course, she was. The game had begun the moment BFW liked her post.
If not that, it definitely started when she clicked on his profile picture. If
Alok was right, there was no escaping steganography.
BFW: Well, isn’t life one big game? A dirty, dirty game. We’re going to talk.
And share secrets. That’s all. Nothing as sinister as what you did to Fatima.
Neha: I did nothing to her.
BFW: Fatima didn’t say so. The irony of it — you’re here to investigate
what happened to her! You won’t understand. This isn’t a game. Don’t be
fooled by my goofy avatar. The Big Fuzzy Wolf! Relax, this is just an online
chat. All we can do is exchange texts. Sadly, none of that up close and
personal stuff.
Neha: I have no idea what you mean.
BFW: Oh you do, and you’re going to tell yourself the truth as we continue.
Here’s your first task. Let’s start with a simple one. Think of a time you
really hurt Fatima’s feelings.
Neha didn’t give it a second thought before replying. It was as spontaneous
she could be with the unknown danger on the other side of the chat.
Neha: Never in six years. I don’t remember a single time I was angry at her.
A blatant lie. Neha had been furious with Fatima ever since she…
BFW: Rather strange for best friends, wouldn’t you say? After all, the bond
of friendship needs healthy disagreements at its foundation. Think harder.
You hurt her. Many times. Even if you didn’t know and she didn’t show.
Neha furrowed her brows, pinching the bridge of her nose with a thumb and
finger. When she didn’t reply for a good five minutes, BFW sent another
message.
BFW: Need help? Remember the grand dreams you showed her, only to
shatter them when she was within whiskers of her reach? You showed her
the limelight but kept her in the shadows.
Neha: Limelight? Shadows? Are you talking about Madness in Mumbai last
year? When I played the lead role while Fatima ran my Presidential
campaign?
BFW: Go on. This works best if you do most of the talking.
Neha: That has nothing to do with hurting her. She insisted that I star in
our short film. I made it up for her this year. I convinced Fatima to play the
lead role for the live performance at the Mood M finale. What you’re
getting at makes no sense. Kept her in the shadows! If anything, I put her in
the limelight — something she’d never done before. I pulled her out of the
shadows. I gave her an opportunity to take centerstage for what was going
to be IIT’s largest-ever crowd puller.
BFW: Do you think she wanted that? You didn’t give her what she wanted!
Fatima never took the stage because it meant much more to you. Hidden
backstage, away from the cheers, she did all the heavy lifting for you to
shine. She toiled and created props and costumes for you. Never stopped
until you had the best arrangements possible. Not to mention, you got all
the credit. But did you deserve all that much? Fatima did so much more.
She wasn’t alone. What about Akriti? You know how hard she worked on
every single scene. She stayed up all night correcting your dialogue
delivery. Was Akriti acknowledged half as much as you for the success of
Madness in Mumbai? No! Did her name trend on social media? No! Did
anyone care about her director’s award? No!
Neha: How do you know so much about Akriti?
BFW: She told me everything. She played the game too.
Neha: Did you kill her?
BFW: Me? Oh, I’ve never killed anybody! It’s getting lamer each time you
blame me. Now I understand why Fatima said you are such a poor judge of
character. You never understood your best friend. Fatima pretended to
enjoy working hard backstage so that you could reap the credit. What
makes you think she hated limelight? She craved attention, but never at
your expense.
Neha: Fatima didn’t crave attention.
BFW: That’s not what she told me. Wow, how wrong were you about her all
along. No wonder you drove Fatima to jump to her death in front of
thousands. It took something that dramatic to get everyone’s attention.
Especially yours.
Inspector Kamal’s first reaction had been that Fatima did it for attention.
How could BFW have known that? Neha stared at her screen without
typing a reply. BFW didn’t wait for long.
BFW: Admit it, Neha. Fatima desired your attention the most. But you
never cared.
Neha: You know nothing about us.
BFW: You’d be surprised at how little you really know. I learned more
about Fatima in the last two months than you did in all the years of your
friendship.
Neha: Oh really? Then cut the crap and tell me why you killed her.
BFW: Lame alert! For the last time, I only asked her questions. Nothing
special. She gave me answers which she knew all along but never
acknowledged. Self-discovery is a dangerous thing, Neha. My role is only to
enable it.
Neha: Bullshit. I know you manipulated her into killing herself.
BFW: You don’t really believe that, do you? How can someone make
another take their own life?
Neha: I don’t know how you did it. She would have never killed herself if it
weren’t for you. I will find out what you did to her.
BFW: She was dead long before she reached out to me. I eased the process.
You’re wrong when you say she wouldn’t kill herself if it hadn’t been for me.
Truth is, she couldn’t. There’s a difference. Don’t blame me for it. You
already know that.
Neha: Know what?
BFW: That texting doesn’t kill people. If you believe Fatima died because
of texting me, you wouldn’t have followed suit. Unless, of course, you’re
feeling very, very guilty for what you did. To your best friend, no less.
Neha: Is this how you started manipulating her? I can’t believe Fatima fell
prey to whatever sick games you play with your victims.
BFW: Ah, this is what she meant by your contempt for her. You are full of it
even now. You think you’re stronger than Fatima because Fatima played
and died. That’s not how this works. This isn’t a stupid challenge to kill
whoever participates. Think of it as a distressed soul’s last resort. It works
only for the strongest of people who’ve had enough of this world. Fatima
was far stronger than you’ll ever be. You couldn’t kill yourself even if you
desperately needed to. Red Shark isn’t for the weak.
Neha: I get it. Fatima was strong. Akriti wasn’t weak. Madhukar must have
been pretty brave. How else could he jump to his death on the railway
tracks? How many more have you killed with your perverted game? Did
you cause the first suicide in Chennai as well?
BFW: Unfortunately, Red Shark’s curators don’t operate that way. I only
work with players from IIT. It’s great so far. I’m only getting started.
Neha: What will it take for you to stop these games?
BFW: It’d be a shame if I stopped. Really. Most of my players are closing
in on their final tasks. If you really want me to, I could consider giving them
a break. But then you have to play with me.
Neha: Why should I? Why would you want me to play? You’ll never
convince me to harm myself.
BFW: What are you scared of then? We both agree I can’t hurt you. Let’s
play! It’s only exchanging a couple of texts now and then. Do we have a
deal? I’ll suspend all the other games running at IIT right away.
Neha: How do I know you’ll do it?
BFW: You’ll know if I haven’t when the bodies start dropping! Trust me.
I’m bored of the generic tasks most of these players struggle with. But
you’re going to be different. I can feel it. With you, I want to try out new
tasks.
Neha: What kind of tasks?
BFW: Think of it as a treasure hunt. Every task you perform will get you
closer to finding out why Fatima killed herself. It’s your only shot of
learning the truth — don’t blow it. Give it a thought and let me know within
twenty-four hours. Otherwise, you’ll never hear from me again.
Neha: I’m game. I won’t change my mind. As long as all ongoing games at
IIT stop and you tell me the whole truth about Fatima.
BFW: Very good. Are you nervous? Tell me you’re scared. At least a little!
Neha: I’m going to have to disappoint you. I’ve nothing to be afraid of. You
can’t make me hurt myself.
BFW: So naive! Fatima was right about you in every way. You think you’re
safe because this is only a text game. Don’t you see it works both ways? You
know, kind of like a double-edged weapon. You have no idea what learning
Fatima’s truth will do to you. Of course, I can’t physically hurt you. But it
also means I can’t stop you from hurting yourself. Even if I wanted to.
22
Bitter Beer
Thursday, December 19th
“When the hell did my room become a country bar?” Alok stood at the
door, jaw hanging and eyes turning bloodshot with each passing moment.
“Damn, I was in Prof. Surendar’s office for only three hours! How many
people were in here?” He looked at his maroon carpet with dismay as it
soaked up spilled beer.
Neha burped. “I’m sorry, man. Badly needed a drink. Hassan
delivered.” She walked over and fell on Alok’s bed. She pulled a thick
blanket over her head. “I need a timeout.”
“Alright. Ugh. Don’t puke on my bed. I’m sleeping on the floor
tonight.”
“Wake me up when you go for dinner.”
“You know what, I can’t stand this sight. I’m heading out. I’ll come
back in an hour in time for dinner. You’d better clean up my room by then.”
Neha sat upright.
BFW: Don’t tell him about the game any more than he already knows.
Neha: I hope you remember your promise. Alok is also an IITian. Do not
play a game with him.
BFW: Don’t remind me of the rules. Focus on your tasks. Speaking of
which, where are you on your previous task? Have you finished all four
beers yet?
Neha: Yse.
That typo had better make you believe it.
Three beer bottles lay on the floor, a short distance away from the box
of twelve.
BFW: Liar! You opened only three.
That damn selfie camera was on me the whole time.
Goosebumps tingled Neha’s arms and back. Her head wanted to
explode. She wasn’t even drunk. Of the three open beer bottles, she had
intentionally emptied two on Alok’s carpet. In retrospect, it was a foolish
attempt. It failed to trick BFW into thinking she was as drunk as he had
instructed.
BFW: You don’t understand the seriousness of my tasks. Is this a joke to
you? You won’t last fifty days.
Neha: Do I need to wait that long to find out everything about Fatima?
What if I quit?
BFW: Suit yourself. Keep wondering your whole life why Fatima blamed
you for her death.
Neha: That’s it? It’s over? Fine. I’ll provide our chats as evidence to the
police. Try and stop me.
Time to test his steganography skills. Even if he wipes my phone clean, I
have Plan B.
Neha had emailed herself screenshots of their chat and profile.
BFW: What evidence?
The screen went black an instant after Neha read the message. She tapped
all over the screen. Nothing. It was frozen.
What the hell?
A minute later, the screen came back to life. Her wallpaper — a selfie
with Fatima — smiled at her as if nothing had happened. She opened
Facebook messenger and went to her recent chats.
He’s gone!
There was no BFW in her chat history. She went to the gallery. The
screenshots of her chat with BFW had vanished. She opened Facebook in
an incognito tab and searched for him. Not a trace of his presence. The rest
of her phone was exactly as it was a couple of days ago.
What about the screenshots I emailed?
Neha logged on to Alok’s computer and opened her email. A cold bead
of sweat trickled down her spine. She refreshed her inbox three times with
long intervals in between to bite her nails as she waited. There was no trace
of the email with the screenshots. He had manipulated her phone’s cloud
storage and email services seamlessly.
Oh shit, have I compromised Alok’s computer? Why didn’t I check my
email on phone?
Just then, her messenger app beeped.
BFW: Did you miss me?
Neha: How did you do that?
BFW: Let’s just be clear — are we here to exchange cyber secrets or learn
more about Fatima?
Neha: Get on with it.
BFW: I’m trying but you’re making ridiculous attempts to deceive me. I
hate cheaters. I sniff them and eject them in no time. I’m hot property in the
Red Shark curators’ leaderboards for a reason.
Neha: What the hell is that?
BFW: You should concern yourself with the players’ leaderboards. Fatima
aced it.
Neha: What did you do to her?
BFW: Players get points for completed tasks. Bonus for breaking records.
Penalties for too many failed attempts or taking too long. Fatima was such
a delight to play with.
Neha: That’s sick. Do you actually score victims for their tasks leading up
to their suicide?
BFW: It’s extremely competitive! Fatima understood the true spirit of the
game. She’s going to be the first entrant into the Red Shark Hall of Fame!
Neha: That’s disgusting. You’re a serial killer. The leaderboards are your
trophies.
BFW: It’s my playground. As it is for the other curators. We fight fair and
square. Our players give everything for us. They’re not selfish. Red Shark
attracts genuine team players. It’s no wonder selfish people like you excel in
society to live your miserable lives. Most people aren’t in control of their
life. But here in Red Shark, we’re taking charge of death. Don’t let the
leaderboards fool you. That’s only to inspire healthy competition. Society
calls our players losers all their lives. But we know every player who
completes Red Shark is a winner.
Neha: Sounds like less of a winner and more of a chicken dinner to me.
BFW: That’s because you care too much what others think. Do you care
about others after you’re dead? Don’t fool yourself. They didn’t care when
you were alive either.
Neha: Funnily, I agree with you.
BFW: Stop letting the world tell you what to think! They don’t think about
Fatima anymore. Your goddamn alarm clock tells you to wake up because
it’s time. Time for what? Ask Fatima what time it is. She doesn’t care
anymore. Nor should you.
Neha: Any particular reason why you hate time? I’m guessing you also
hate calendars.
BFW: They’re controlling you! The date and time construct isn’t to record
events. It’s to trap you. Monday morning blues. Long weekends. Bullshit. As
long as we’re playing the game, you won’t need the date or time. Let’s put
you in Fatima’s shoes. How else can you understand her?
Neha: Not having a calendar does sound enticing. I hate those damn alerts
for meetings and submissions. You’re partly right about how it makes me
feel. Like I’m trapped. But your argument has a fatal flaw. What if I love the
trap? I’m a stickler for order, discipline, and hierarchy. Call it OCD or
whatever, I live by order and structure.
BFW: I didn’t ask for your opinion. It’s your next task. For the duration of
our game, disable your clock and calendar.
Neha: Well, why not. Being kicked out of the StudC has its benefits. I don’t
need a calendar anymore. I’ll also get rid of my watch. I wanted to break
Alok’s wall clock the first time I stepped in. Can tell him it’s an honest drunk
mistake.
BFW: Perfect. Don’t tell him anything about our game. Regarding your
phone’s calendar and clocks, let me handle it. It’ll be quicker and foolproof.
Her screen froze again, but this time for only a few seconds. The chat was
intact.
BFW: Done. You won’t be able to turn them back on without my help.
Neha checked. He was right. The phone’s default date and clock settings
were overridden. She stared at the maker’s logo.
Market leader my ass. How badly will your stock fall? All I have to do
is tell people your operating system’s vulnerability! But to be fair, this is
some phenomenal hacking.
BFW: That was a quick task. Mostly because I did it for you. And because
you weren’t as drunk as I told you to. Don’t cheat on your tasks again.
You’ll pay a heavy price.
Neha: Alright, you literal creep.
BFW: You’re at the lowest position on the leaderboard of all the players
I’ve played with. Don’t make me look so bad. You’d be letting Fatima down
too. I’ve never been right at the top until Fatima’s game. The next task will
continue alongside others all the way to the fiftieth day. It’s simple. You’ve
got to watch a video at the time I tell you to.
Neha: Err, I won’t be able to see the time anymore, remember?
BFW: Good. You’re paying attention. I’ll message you whenever I want you
to watch it. Once you get the hang of it, we’ll move to two videos a day.
Maybe more. Let’s see how much you can take.
Neha: Somebody better call Netflix. Someone’s trying to steal their chill.
Okay, maybe I am a little drunk.
She slapped herself to sober down.
BFW: Keep your sense of humor intact. You’ll need it.
Neha: Are you going to torture me with poor stand up comedy until I kill
myself?
BFW: Laugh while you still can. What I’m going to show you will make you
forget how to smile. None of what I show you will be fabricated. A lot of
times I’ll send you a live stream. There’s plenty of shit going on everywhere
at any time for me to ever run out of content. If only you knew how much
pain you’ve caused to countless living things in the last twenty-four hours.
The little bit of cream you put in your coffee costs a cow a lifetime of
torture.
Neha: I knew it. You’re PETA.
BFW: Save the jokes. You’ll need them in the hell you’re going to go
through.
Neha: Alright, I get it. In return, what else will you tell me about Fatima?
BFW: Everything. Okay, no more tricks. Glug down all those beers as
punishment for deceiving me before. I want all nine bottles to convert from
beer to piss in the next hour. I’m watching you.
Neha put the cold rim of the bottle to her lips. She drank, careful to remain
within the frame of her camera’s lens. The beer vanished down her throat.
This time, there was no doubt that she wasn’t cheating.
BFW: If you spill a single drop, I promise you beer won’t be the only thing
soaking that damn carpet. I know all about your three-time unlucky
roommate. I can break him in minutes. Drink when I tell you to. Watch
videos when I tell you to. Break no rules unless you want to see Alok’s blood
on that carpet.
Neha had never found the taste of beer so bitter before.
23
Twitching Fingers
Saturday (or was it Sunday?)
The vomit on Neha’s t-shirt smelled of whiskey. But it was the view far
down below that sent a jolt down her spine.
Is this a dream?
Intoxicated beyond control, she didn’t know when and how she got up
here. But the harsh night wind caressing Neha’s face and whistling in her
ears left no doubt it was real. The sight below dried her throat. Gulping
hurt. Her stomach gurgled with rumbling bile. Frightening as it was, Fatima
had jumped off from this exact point. That too effortlessly, in front of
thousands.
Neha spread her legs for balance. She pressed her hips, thighs, and
ankles against the cold concrete behind. One hand gripped the ledge of the
terrace at her waist while the other pulled out her phone. Precariously
balanced on frightened feet, she texted.
Neha: I’m on the auditorium’s terrace.
BFW: I’m impressed. I didn’t think you’d get there so fast after graduating
to whiskey.
Neha: I graduated to whiskey in my first year. You’d know if you were a
mechanical engineer. You don’t seem to be the type. If we met over a drink,
I’d read you like a book.
BFW: Based on how many rounds I drank?
Neha: I’ll need you to keep up with me. It’d be a short meeting. Based on
how fast you pass out, I’d grade you on a scale ranging from teetotaler to
chronic alcoholic. How far you go on the scale would tell me how
interesting I’d find you.
BFW: Where do you fit on your scale?
Neha: That’s a dumb question. I calibrated the entire scale myself.
BFW: Quite the drinker are you? Good, it should make our game a lot
more fun. You’re boring when sober, especially when you pretend to be
drunk. But you’re not pretending anymore. Why else would you dangle off
the very ledge Fatima last stood on?
Neha: Sober or not, I came here. We had a deal. Now tell me about Fatima.
BFW: Yes, yes, of course. I bet you’re dying to know what was in her head
before she jumped off. Let’s see your task status. You’ve done well on the
videos. Off the charts for drinking. Nice, you’re rising up the leaderboards.
You’ve earned the right to know more. Just like how you’re thinking about
her, she also thought about you when she stood in your place.
Warm tears blurred Neha’s vision. A salty drop fell on her phone screen.
The cloud of alcohol-induced dizziness in her head cleared momentarily.
The cold wind helped. She focused on why she was here. It was the first
thing Neha wanted to know. The Big Fuzzy Wolf tasked her with climbing
up to the spot from where Fatima had jumped off. If she did it, he promised
he’d tell her the answer. She had plowed through war videos and children
dying of starvation.
I’m definitely watching a record number of videos every day.
Goddammit, how many days has it been since I started?
The last video had not only been horrifying, but BFW had also made
her drink a quarter of whiskey before watching it. Neha didn’t remember
whether it was a task or she willingly drank two beers after that. To wash
away the whiskey’s taste lingering in her mouth. She associated whiskey
with the sight of African children wilting into the dry, barren soil. Right
next to their skinny, dead parents. Bitter beer washed away the horrors of
blended whiskey. She remembered the two beers after that better. Definitely
not a Red Shark task. She strutted to the auditorium’s terrace undetected.
Knowing which of the CCTV cameras didn’t work was useful knowledge.
Neha: Could anything have stopped her from jumping off?
It struck her as being a useless question the moment she typed it. Even if
she found out now, she couldn’t do anything to bring Fatima back. Would
knowing her dying thoughts make things worse? What if this was Fatima’s
most regretful moment?
BFW: I’m afraid not, Neha. Fatima would have jumped off even if you were
right next to her.
Neha knew he was watching her. She climbed back to safety. Her feet
planted themselves firmly on the granite tiles on the terrace. He sent another
text.
BFW: Back to safety, are we? Fatima jumped the other way, you know.
Here’s your answer to what Fatima felt before jumping off. It was genuinely
the happiest moment in her short life.
How old is this guy if he thinks twenty-five is a short life? But he had a
point. For the blessed person that Fatima was, even a hundred years was
too short a life.
BFW: You can thank me for making her last few days the best.
Blood boiled inside Neha’s veins. She clenched her fists, bending the edges
of her phone’s case.
Neha: Happy or not, she jumped to her death. She felt horrible pain and
you’re responsible.
BFW: Pain? Oh, dear! Fatima felt no pain at all! How many students do
you have in your batch? Some five hundred?
Neha: More like four hundred.
BFW: Believe me, Fatima was among the lucky ones. Her life was the least
painful of them all. I spared her meaningless agony. All the pain which the
vast majority of your final-year students will suffer. You’ll see why at the
end of your next task soon.
Neha: How can a snapped neck after a ghastly fall be painless?
BFW: You were there. You saw her die. She was the happiest she’d ever
been. A literal leap of faith and it would all soon be over. She was in bliss
during her fall to freedom. The only pain she felt was in the moments you
saw her twitching fingers. A mere flash in the pan.
The words on her screen sent a shudder down her spine as her mind drifted
to the sight.
Neha: You’re not fooling me. I will find out the truth. I will I catch you.
BFW: Drunk or sober, is there anything I can say right now that’ll make
you jump off the terrace?
Neha: Obviously not.
BFW: Then what makes you think I made her do it?
Neha: She would never kill herself like that. You must have said something.
I’ll find out before we’re through.
BFW: That’s exactly what we signed up for. Keep doing your tasks and
you’ll learn everything. What do you want to know next? I’ll assign your
next task according to it.
Neha: Take me to where it all started. Why did she reach out to you? What
did you talk about the first time you spoke?
BFW: Excellent. Great questions. I like how you’re hopping from her last
moment all the way back to where it started in her mind. Suicide is not an
isolated event. It is a long process. Every death has a birth. And I’m not
talking about the day the person was born.
Neha: Don’t beat about the bush. What did Fatima say when you first
spoke?
BFW: You need to perform a task before I answer that. The task isn’t
random. I’ll customize it so that you can understand her state of mind,
months before she died. The birth of her death! Only then can you
appreciate why suicide was good for her. Would you agree if I said you have
a mixed relationship with your parents?
Neha: That’s not a lucky guess. Every girl in her early twenties is like that.
BFW: Who said I guessed?
Then it hit her.
He’s spying on on my conversations with Mom and Dad. All those angry
email exchanges. Ugh.
BFW: Did you ever think what it was like for Fatima? No parents. A sister
she hardly ever spoke to. You need to experience what having no family
feels like. How else can you understand the emotions behind what Fatima
told me? Your next task is to feel what Fatima did. That deep, dark sense of
being lonely. From now on, for the entire duration of our game disconnect
from your friends and family. It’s less than fifty days. You can do it. You owe
Fatima at least this much. Speak to nobody you love. Don’t text anyone but
me. In fact, just block all your contacts.
Neha: Are you serious? My folks will go bananas if I don’t talk to them that
long.
BFW: Cook up some shit. Aren’t girls in their twenties good with that too?
Tell your people you won’t be reachable for a couple of weeks. Do you want
me to cook up excuses for you? Give them a reason why you can’t use your
phone. Some digital detox and yoga routine crap to cope with Fatima’s loss.
Neha: I get it now. You’re a whiny girl in her twenties. Alright, I’ll do it.
Nothing to complain about. I need a break from everyone while I get to the
bottom of this. Tell me, how does this task affect your leaderboard?
BFW: Falling in love with the leaderboards already, I see. You take care of
your tasks, I’ll worry about my scores. I feared you’d refuse to do this task.
It’s great fortune that you want to do it. A break from loved ones. You’re
trying to feel what Fatima did. I’m impressed. Go ahead then, block all
your contacts by tomorrow morning.
Neha: What do you do if a player refuses tasks?
BFW: Don’t worry about others. Focus on your game or you’ll never know
why Fatima was right in what she did. That would be a shame. Can you let
Fatima down even after she’s dead? Neither of us wants that, do we?
Always ask how to do the task, not how to get out of it. There’s no backing
out of the Red Shark game once you begin. Bending rules is a dangerous
territory. And I’ve bent quite a few rules already. A curator cannot stop
ongoing games to pursue a new one. I did it for you. Nobody’s dying at IIT,
see? It’ll stay that way as long as you play by the rules. Is it too much to
ask?
Neha: Very well. You’re going to make me feel like Fatima did for another
reason. I’ve known all along, but I’ll continue. You win only if I commit
suicide. I’ve got bad news for you — I won’t. I wish Fatima had backed out.
How did you make Fatima believe dying was good? She deserved a long
life.
BFW: Does the world give everyone what they deserve? Haven’t the videos
taught you anything? Did that man deserve to watch his wife and children
get butchered by his own brother? I showed you that video as it unfolded
live, straight from the depths of the darknet. Even though the darknet is
illegal, it doesn’t mean the barbaric videos you saw aren’t real. You know
what I’m talking about, right? Or are you too drunk to remember what you
see? I can make it easy by cutting out a few drinking tasks.
Neha: I’m fine. Besides, my liver’s immune to death by drink.
BFW: Good. You’ll need it to dull what’s coming your way. It doesn’t matter
whether you think Fatima deserved it. What’s important is that she got what
she wanted. She sought me to play. She followed the rules. She won. Simple.
Neha: You can say it any way you like. The truth won’t change. You killed
her. I will prove it by playing and surviving your stupid game. There’s
nothing you could have said to Fatima that made her jump to her death. I
don’t know how you did it, but I’m certain you’re directly involved in her
murder.
BFW: Murder! You’re judging me? Save all that judgment for yourself.
You’ll need it after discovering Fatima’s truth. I’m getting irritated. Just
shut up with your tangents and do your tasks. The sooner you do, the faster
you’ll learn what role you unwittingly played in Fatima’s death.
Neha: I’m fed up with your attempts to manipulate me into thinking I’m
responsible. You can wipe my phone clean, but not my brain. As far as I’m
concerned, in every metaphorical sense, you pushed her off the ledge.
BFW: There you go! Metaphorical — that’s the key. Tell me, can my best
metaphors make you physically jump off that ledge?
Neha looked down where Fatima had landed. It was disturbing to know the
Bad F-ing Wolf was watching her. Relishing every moment of tormenting
Neha.
BFW: Obviously not. I’m quite powerless, you see. But as I said, just as I
cannot push you off, I can’t save you either if you decide to jump. Block
your contacts and continue our game. If you end the game, I’ll play Red
Shark with the fatso. Don’t look back. Look forward. I’ll give you a bonus if
you complete the contact deletion task. We’re moving beyond boring videos
of poor and hungry kids dying in Africa. Gear up for an incredible playlist
of what we do to innocent animals around the world. I’ll ease you into them
over the next couple of weeks. If you complete your present task tonight.
Neha darted down the auditorium’s central staircase. With one hand sliding
along the handrest, her other hand’s fingers tapped away on the phone
screen. She deleted her father’s contact right after blocking incoming calls.
Amazed by her ability to handle so much alcohol, she trotted on. She
sneaked out of the building using the backdoor route. On her way, Neha
flashed a defiant middle finger at the broken CCTV camera. There was
going to be no evidence of her little stunt on the terrace. By the time she
reached her room to find Alok asleep, she had blocked every number in her
contacts list.
24
Lucky Ones
January (Probably)
Was it days or weeks since that drunken night on the auditorium’s terrace?
If only there existed a way to measure time using the height of the rising
pile of empty whiskey bottles. Right outside Neha’s and Alok’s room.
The Bad F-ing Wolf claimed it would take fifty days or so for her to
learn Fatima’s truth if she completed all tasks. She feared her liver wouldn’t
last that long. But it would have to. Even longer, if needed.
Regardless of whether BFW instructed her to get drunk or not to
perform tasks, she did it anyway. Fatima’s death had opened the door for a
new best friend to enter Neha’s life. Whiskey.
When was I last sober?
Every little nugget of information from the Bad F-ing Wolf came with a
heavy price. Yet, nothing he had told her so far provided a concrete
explanation for Fatima’s decision. Neha forgot what it was like to be sober.
She went to sleep tired and drunk and awoke hours later feeling no
different.
What James Bond movie was that? The one where he says he’s always
drinking because if he stops, the collective hangover will kill him. Is that
how I’ll go?
BFW told her she was acing the leaderboards. She devoured videos with
incredible stamina. The videos got increasingly more violent. Explicit gore
became commonplace in her thoughts. After a while, they all felt the same.
Her senses numbed. She felt no pain, despite knowing each video left a scar
on her soul.
The only face she’d seen in days was Alok’s. He was always angry with
her now. The bottles and Neha’s stench didn’t impress him one bit. Neha
avoided verbal conflict, but in her mind, Alok died at her hands a thousand
times.
You asshole. If you’re going to die, it better be at my hands. I need to
drink to keep BFW off your back.
No matter how much he protested, Neha’s daily alcohol orders poured
in. Hassan made handsome commissions. As did the guard who discovered
Neha didn’t mind if he sold some of the bottles at the scrap shop.
One day Alok slapped her. Whether it was the violent video or that extra
swig of whiskey, Neha retaliated like never before. She buried her knee into
his chest so hard, he collapsed and gasped for breath for minutes. As he
cringed in pain, Neha put on earphones and watched more videos.
Foul-tempered cursing became common in the room after that.
Unlike Neha, Alok was a quitter. Having realized he couldn’t keep it up,
one day he joined her with a light beer of his own. It worked. Neha opened
up after a long time. Not wanting to risk BFW’s promise to hurt Alok, she
decided not to disobey his orders. She never told Alok that she was playing
the Red Shark game.
Has he guessed it anyway?
She didn’t care what he thought. At least he wasn’t pushing her.
Especially since he’d made no progress in decrypting messages sent over
IIT’s network.
How many days has he been working on it?
Losing track of time was crippling. Especially since obsessive
scheduling ruled Neha’s life not too long ago. Was it ages ago that Neha’s
calendar app beeped notifications every thirty minutes? Where were the
reminders of StudC appointments? Had IIT resumed lectures? Was there a
placement application she’d missed? What year was it! Academic
submissions seemed like relics from forgotten history.
I was wrong, I miss my calendar. Hope the StudC is holding up without
me. They don’t seem to miss me anyway. Maybe it’s my binge drinking
rumors.
If nothing else, her drunkenness kept others away, particularly StudC
members. Even Arjun, Kapil, and Sumit hadn’t spoken to her or asked why
her phone wasn’t reachable. The others weren’t as close.
How many of them were waiting for a legit opportunity to ignore me?
It didn’t matter. Rather, it allowed time to make rapid progress in the
Red Shark game. Tasks came and went by, between bouts of drunken
blackouts.
Slowly but steadily, incremental information emerged about Fatima’s
final few days. Throughout, Neha got more and more frustrated. Was she
ever going to get a satisfying answer?
How long has it been since I started? Days, months, or years?
The permanent whiskey buzz in her head stretched every strand of time,
slowing it down. Until it got absolutely unbearable.
Will this go on forever?
It was foolish to think of concepts like forever. She couldn’t even tell
what day it was.
Groggy images and sounds from the horrors of last night’s videos
troubled her mind. If her calculations were correct, there should have been
one unopened bottle of booze. The one Hassan had gifted her. The funny
shaped, red-capped bottle of imported white rum as a token of gratitude for
all her recent orders. Her last chance of saving grace to fight her throbbing
head.
Shit. Did I finish it last night? Or last week? Where is that damn bottle?
She looked around till she felt something with her toe that caught her
attention. A crumpled bottlecap of that unmistakable red. The gifted bottle
was long over.
Neha cursed. She looked at her roommate.
“Alok, get the night canteen guy to refill my whiskey stock.”
Alok sighed.
Neha stared into her phone. A backlog was beginning to build up. The
Bad F-ing Wolf had sent her hundreds of videos at short intervals. He had
boasted about how he hosted the videos on encrypted servers in the darknet.
If she could get into his server, more clues would emerge. She was
desperate for anything that could give her a chance to nail the bastard.
Dammit. I need Alok for this.
Without showing him the content of the videos, Neha showed him the
links.
“Can you trace the source where they’re hosting this?”
“Let me try.” Alok opened a strange-looking coding terminal.
An hour later, he looked up from his screen with shoulders drooped.
“The source is untraceable. Can you show me what’s in the videos? Might
give me a clue.”
“No. For your own goddamn good.”
“I’m just trying to help,” Alok protested.
Neha licked the bottlecap of her whiskey bottle, salvaging the last
droplets. “If you really want to help, order a carton of whiskey. Hassan is
late today.”
Reaching for her headphones, she put a finger to her lips, snubbing
Alok’s attempt to reply.
The videos were disturbing, to say the least, and all the more so without
whiskey. Neha plowed through them anyway. Authentic footage from the
two World Wars stitched together into a collage of horror. Cries of anguish
captured from hundreds of battlefields.
Okay, James Bond, you had it all wrong about hangovers. They can be
useful.
Without a drop of whiskey in her throat for quite some time by a raging
alcoholic’s standards, her hangover became a blessing in disguise. It was a
surprisingly good substitute for whiskey to numb her emotions — it was so,
empathy for others took a backseat. Not exactly ideal, but any help to cope
with BFW’s videos was always welcome.
It’ll have to do until Alok figures out a way to restock whiskey. Hassan,
you asshole, where are you?
The hangover caused a dull, throbbing pain inside her skull. It was a
small price to pay in exchange for numbing her emotions to the gory
videos. Young men and women got cut down to machinegun fire with
explosions in the background. The sights and sounds of bomb blasts and
bullets lingered in her head long after.
She drifted off to sleep. A nightmare was waiting. Naked, hungry, and
wounded, Fatima was crawling on the blistering sand of a hot desert. It only
got worse when she hit a landmine. Pieces of her burned flesh scattered
around the desert.
* * *
The din of the students around her brought her back into reality for a
moment. But why was she was in a packed classroom? It was hard to tell
what was real and what was a nightmare anymore.
It started to come back. Hours ago, Neha had woken up with whiskey
stains on her sweatshirt. Even now, her dried lips still reeked of booze. She
recalled drifting off to sleep in her jeans on the floor beside Alok’s bed.
While watching more videos.
Neha clenched her teeth and fought her hangover to remember how she
got into a full classroom. Her head felt like a vice was tightening around it.
Her grinding teeth brought ominous feelings.
Everything is only going to get worse.
She checked her phone. Her chat history made it clear why she was in
class. The Bad F-ing Wolf had asked her to attend a class and await his next
task. And here she was. With no recollection how and when she walked to
class.
Momentary flashes of clarity interrupted her now perennial, painful
hangover. Neha remembered now. A strange sense of normalcy had
resumed on campus. The Red Shark suicides had stopped altogether at IIT.
Right after I began the game.
BFW had kept his promise. The last Red Shark suicide at IIT was still
Akriti. But outside of IIT, Red Shark suicides carried on at an alarming rate.
India’s confirmed Red Shark death toll rose by as many as thirty or forty
suicides every single day.
The momentary respite from suicides at IIT sufficed as a trigger. To
pretend everything was alright. Dean Shekhar wasted no time in
commencing mandatory placement preparation sessions. On his orders,
students who’d gone home returned to IIT en masse. Despite nobody
knowing how long the peace would last. Placements were the optimal
distraction. Everyone got busy fantasizing about landing jobs in their dream
companies. Those fancy roles! The eye-popping salaries they would pocket.
Everyone got busy. Except for Neha.
Only she knew how delicate the situation really was. Red Shark would
not take another life of an IIT student only as long as she played.
How long can I go on?
“Neha, for the last time!” The harsh voice broke Neha’s stupor. “If
you’re not interested, get out and study for your theory exams. Placement
prep is useless if you don’t get your degree.” It was Pramod, a junior
professor from the Computer Engineering department.
Neha shook her head. But the cobwebs inside her head remained
unaffected.
“Okay, for the rest of you,” Professor Pramod continued. “Let’s work on
guesstimates. Tech giants who recruit from IIT don’t waste their time by
asking theoretical questions. Or coding fundamentals. That’s taken for
granted. You guys are the best brains in the world for that anyway. What
Google, Amazon, and Microsoft are looking for at IIT is creativity. They
want engineers with the ability to see the larger picture. It’s a rare quality.
Sadly, many brilliant engineers are blind to the needs of the future. Only
because they’re too caught up perfecting the present. Never miss the forest
for the trees. Alright, put away your laptops. Clear your minds of thoughts
of coding syntax and what libraries to import in Python. Grab a pen and
paper. Prepare to think.”
Neha’s head could have exploded at the mere thought of thinking. But
she had no choice. It was time to do a guesstimate of her own. The Bad F-
ing Wolf’s newest task was supposed to begin. She checked her phone. As
expected, BFW was online. He always was. The green dot beside his profile
pic showing him online never switched off.
Seconds passed slowly as Neha waited for his puzzle. If she could
answer it to his satisfaction, he had promised a big reveal: why suicide was
Fatima’s best bet.
She read his instructions once again. All Neha had to do was to proceed
logically and answer his questions. She was to articulate the steps she’d
take to solve his guesstimate. It was nothing short of a high-stress interview
puzzle. An interview with higher stakes than any other before.
“What’s the market size for fitness wearables in India?” Professor
Pramod’s voice buzzed in the background.
As if on cue, Neha received a more intriguing problem statement on her
phone.
BFW: Let’s begin. By the end of this guesstimate, you’ll know why dead
Fatima is still better off than your living batchmates at IIT. Here’s your
question: How many of the final year IIT students will go on to live happy
lives? Don’t give me a number — you can’t anyway — because happiness is
subjective. I’m interested in your thought process and approach.
Neha: Well, for a start, I’d define a few quantifiable parameters. I mean
basic, objectively measurable indicators. They’ll serve as proxies for the
subjective measurement of lifetime happiness. Then, I’ll apply this
framework to the 400 folks in their final year at IIT. The result should be a
fair estimate of the number of folks who will live a happy life. Sounds
Reasonable?
BFW: Go on. No complaints yet. Tell me more about your objective metrics
and how they’ll help measure happiness at the time of death.
Neha: Let’s look at health, wealth, and mindset as basic objective
measures. They’ll help understand what my batchmates will achieve before
death. And of course, the age at the time of death itself. That should be the
fourth and final objective metric. With that, we can project how many of
them will have lived happy lives.
BFW: Alright. I quite like your approach. We’re going to look at health,
wealth, mindset, and age at the time of death. How will the metrics tie-up?
Neha: Happy lives are only those who lived in good health, had enough
wealth, peace of mind. But of course, it’s meaningless if they died too early.
BFW: Well, that’s how you look at it. Go on.
Neha: Okay. Health first. I have the batch’s annual health report statistics
in my email, let me pull that out. Then I can correlate the data with the
expected work and lifestyle patterns for most IIT alumni. I can also apply
general Indian health and lifestyle risk statistics to model it better.
BFW: Take your time. This is interesting.
Neha: Okay, so the current final year batch has 33% of its students
overweight, with a further 2% morbidly obese. Only 11% are at peak
athletic condition. A disturbing 44% have family histories of medical
problems. Diabetes, cancer, heart disease, blood pressure, or a combination
are the main issues.
BFW: What do your alumni do? How much do they earn on average?
Neha: On it already. No surprises, the Alumni Relations Cell published a
report last year. Over 85% of IIT’s alumni hold senior positions in
technology or corporate functions. In India and abroad. The remaining
15% are enjoying early retirement. They made their fortunes in their thirties
and now invest in startups or riskier avenues.
BFW: So, I guess that gives everyone a happy score on the wealth front.
How does it affect their health?
Neha: Virtually every IITian works sedentary jobs. For most of their career.
BFW: Add to that smoking, caffeine, sugar, and beer. Not to mention
overindulgence because of your colleagues. What’s the use of those
premium gym memberships when you have neither time nor energy to work
out? We’re looking at an insidious pandemic.
Neha: Okay. A rough data model I’ve built says 40% of the final year
students will live sub-par lifestyles on the health front. We can straight
away eliminate them from our calculation. They can’t live happy lives if
they’re not healthy enough to enjoy it.
BFW: I daresay heart disease and cancer will take out a fair few of the lot.
I’ll accept the first two parts of your thought process and their estimates.
The wealth filter left us with 400 of 400 candidates. I’ll accept it. Everyone
will be wealthier than average, considering they’re from IIT. Health though,
not so much. You say 40% of 400 is gone. Proceed. What filter do you want
to use next?
Neha: The peace of mind filter. Of the remaining 240, I’d say most would
have peace of mind. Healthy, wealthy, and making the world a better place
through their successful careers. Isn’t that the dream? Something every
Indian child dreams of. What more could these 240 people want?
BFW: No comments. Proceed.
Neha: The last filter. Age at the time of death. A quick Google search shows
India’s average life expectancy is 69 years. I’m going to objectively classify
all deaths before the age of 69 as unhappy deaths.
BFW: Here’s where you’re catastrophically wrong. The age filter is
meaningless. Besides, you made a mistake in the peace of mind stage too.
I’m still thinking about what you said about living the dream.
Neha: What about it?
BFW: Getting into IIT. Nailing a high-paying job. Eventually becoming a
corporate honcho. In your own words - to make the world a better place.
That’s an illusion. A life spent in a fool’s paradise isn’t a truly happy life.
Neha: It is for those who make it. Happiness is subjective. The best brains
of IIT land placements with the greatest corporations. They work to make
the world a better place, whether you accept it or not. While making shit
loads of money doing it. If that’s fool’s paradise, I don’t care. It still
accounts for happiness.
BFW: Guess you need a dose of the next set of videos I’ve got. Note to self.
Fatima didn’t believe in the dream. She saw reality as the hell that it is. She
didn’t want to live on by masking it as a paradise.
Neha: She didn’t care about a plushy job. So what? Most people aren’t like
Fatima. None of my batchmates are.
BFW: Okay, so we’re stuck at 240 batchmates out of 400 who you believe
will live happy lives. Very good. As I said, the number doesn’t matter. I’m
pleased with your approach, though you’ve got peace of mind wrong. Age
at the time of death doesn’t matter. Fatima’s case proves it. I’m happy with
your solution to my guesstimate. As a reward, I will objectively prove to you
Fatima is happier than these 240 will ever be! Only in their dying moments
will they realize it. Fatima knew much before her dying moment that she
was free. These 240 — the lucky ones — will someday be on their
deathbeds. Tubes will feed them and remove their filth as they pray for a
painless death. Every single one of them will no longer be able to lie to
themselves about how they made the world a better place. The irony will be
brutal. The longer they’ve lived, the longer they’ve fooled themselves.
Neha: That makes no sense.
BFW: Not yet. You aren’t prepared to learn what Fatima taught me. To
understand her wisdom, you need to go still deeper into her mind. You must
experience her psyche, exactly as it was two days before she killed herself.
Neha: How?
BFW: Your next task will take care of it. You will sleep in Fatima’s room
starting from tonight. Where else can you discover her euphoria? What
better place to share her realization? Go on, you’re getting close. Carry on
this way and you’ll learn why an early and enlightened death makes
Fatima’s life the happiest of all.
Neha: What about Alok?
BFW: He’s a big boy. He can sleep by himself. Give him the classic “it’s not
you, it’s me” routine. Your alcoholism is driving him crazy. Roommates
have separated over much smaller problems.
25
Fatima’s Room
Middle to Late January
The weak evening sunlight reflected off the windowpane onto the ceiling. It
was more generous than usual in Fatima’s room today.
Has it been a month since you died, Fatima? Seems like only yesterday
that we were laughing here in your room.
Despite moving into Fatima’s room, Neha’s routine was largely intact.
Only the bed and ceiling changed. Even better, there was no Alok around to
judge her drinking. Which allowed the pile of whiskey bottles to occupy
most of Fatima’s room. Hassan’s business flourished even more. He gave
her a free bottle on every third visit. She paid him a higher commission for
guarding her secret.
I can’t call that guy to sell these bottles to the scrap shop. The Dean will
chew me alive if he finds out I’m hanging out in Fatima’s room.
Neha saw only one person apart from Hassan in the last few days. It was
herself, in the mirror. At least a haggard version of how she remembered
herself.
Back in hostel H12, Alok had his room to himself ever since she left.
Neha figured Alok and the pups would do just fine. At least she hoped so.
Every alternate day, Neha sent Alok a couple of quick emails. She asked
in veiled phrases every single time whether he had cracked IIT’s decryption
algorithm.
Bad F-ing Wolf — You’re reading all my emails, I know that. Good
thing Alok taught me cryptic slang to mask our hidden messages. How’s
that’s for some rookie steganography of our own? A text message hidden
inside another. Who am I kidding? You can probably see through it anyway.
Who cares?
Refusal to tell Alok of her whereabouts was ensuring for his safety as
well as her for smooth progress in the Red Shark game. All she told him
was that she was on campus. Time away from Alok’s room was helping her
make rapid progress in her understanding of the Red Shark game. She
warned that he wouldn’t see her for a couple of weeks more.
Alok hadn’t probed further. Not after Neha warned him it was for his
own safety. Knowing too many details of the Red Shark game wouldn’t do
Alok any good. He understood. He replied with an assurance he wouldn’t
interfere. The next day, he sent an email with a promise that he had her back
in case anyone asked about her. Despite no further suicides at IIT, the buddy
system was still on. Alok reassured Neha that he would maintain she was
still staying in his room. If anyone asked.
As for the rest of the campus, nobody cared Neha had become scarce.
Not even her once faithful StudC. How little the Dean cared. Had he even
noticed she was gone? Was he content with her buddy’s periodic updates to
the hostel warden that all was well? It seemed likely. That would be a very
Dean Shekhar thing to do. He often said in class that if it ain’t broke, don’t
fix it. As long as nobody was dying on campus to Red Shark anymore, he
wouldn’t lift a finger out of fear of disturbing their delicate respite from
suicides.
Nobody apart from Neha had a clue what had halted Red Shark at IIT.
But whatever it was, it seemed to be working. Everyone wanted to keep it
that way. But complacency eventually crept in.
A few pairs of incompatible buddies soon parted ways. A few sealed
rooms were reopened and handed back to the original occupant. However,
the Dean’s instructions required everyone to still remain accountable for
their buddies. Frustrated with cohabitating rooms with people they didn’t
like, a few took the offer without a second thought. They promised to report
any warning signs to their hostel wardens.
The Dean kept an eye on split up pairs. As long as the campus
continued to be free of Red Shark suicides, the Dean couldn’t care less who
slept with whom. Or where. Fatima’s wing, however, continued to remain
out of bounds for all students, under the strictest orders.
How long can I keep living in Fatima’s room before someone finds out?
Fatima’s “sealed” room on the deserted floor meant Neha could stay
here undetected. If she remained quiet. Earphones allowed her to listen to
BFW’s audio files silently, without anyone on the floors above or below
realizing Neha was in Fatima’s room.
BFW upped the ante of the gore and tragedy his videos contained. He
now required her to also listen to a few audio-only files. Mostly, they
comprised tribal chants and the final cries of the dying animals from all
over the world. Macabre as it was, Neha’s senses had dulled to a zombie-
like state over the weeks.
She ordered a meal from the night canteen every alternate night. The
floor’s common toilet and shower were a short walk from Fatima’s room.
Neha didn’t know when she last showered. But drink she did. A lot.
After a couple of days of his stealthy booze delivery routine, Hassan
gave in to his curiosity. Tonight, he couldn’t help it. He placed her whiskey
bottles on the floor and asked what she was doing in Fatima’s room all
these days.
“I’ve had my best times in IIT right here with Fatima. Does anybody
suspect I’m here?”
“I don’t think so.”
“Hasn’t anyone from my hostel asked if you’ve seen me? What about
people from my class and placement prep sessions? Oh wait, why am I
asking you that?”
“Well, I don’t think anyone even realizes you’re gone.”
Bitter as it was, he was right. Not that there was any way to prove it.
Having blocked everyone she knew, nobody could give her a phone call to
check on her. Hearing no other human voice became maddening. Fearing
for her sanity, she would call Alok every two or three days from the phone
in the hostel’s common room.
You big fat wanker! You have no idea how good it feels to hear your
voice.
She never admitted it to him though. After checking on Curie and her
pups, she’d let him know she was alright and hang up before he asked
anything else. Apart from minimizing the risk of going insane, calling Alok
also reassured her he was safe.
There’s no telling what might piss off BFW. Alok, I won’t let him kill
you.
She instructed Alok to relay messages between Neha and anyone else
who might want to reach out to her. Alok understood and complied.
Admittedly, it was hurtful when she realized nobody came forward. The
days went on. Or maybe they were just hours. It was hard to tell. It didn’t
matter.
It’s always Fatima Day. The time’s always Fatima o’clock.
Eerily cozy in Fatima’s room, Neha had found a new home. Just like it
was before moving in, her strenuous routine of watching gloomy videos
continued.
No wonder Red Shark players kill themselves. These videos can drive
anyone insane.
* * *
She wanted to quit every single day. Red Shark was a living hell. But there
was neither time nor room to protest. Not when her gut told her she was
close to unraveling the truth. Besides, BFW had not once asked her to cut
herself or skip meals.
He doesn’t need to. I’m never hungry anymore.
Neha spent days and nights watching more gruesome videos. BFW’s
collection was the Netflix of depression. Neha’s body clock told her there
was some order to this randomness. She began to instinctively sense that the
next video was due. Her gut feeling was remarkably accurate most of the
time. Despite having neither seen a clock or calendar for far too long.
Can I take this a step further and put a number on my gut feelings?
She tried an experiment. It took assumptions. She decided that sunrise
would correspond to approximately 6 a.m. at this time of the year.
What month is it?
She tore a small fistful of her hair out waiting for the first rays of the
sun.
There it is! Sunrise! Okay, so it’s 6 a.m. now.
An educated guess told her it was probably 4 a.m. — two hours ago —
each night when a war-themed video came in from BFW. Another ongoing
war somewhere in the Middle East.
Does the country or victim’s name even matter anymore?
Somewhere in the world, a diamond ring symbolized eternal love for a
newlywed couple.
Would they enjoy their wedding feast if they knew their ring orphaned a
dozen children in Africa?
Okay, not everyone can afford a diamond. But what about fuel? Every
gallon of fuel sold anywhere in the world required loss of life elsewhere.
It’s wrong to say my cab ride to the airport costs two hundred bucks.
That’s shallow. It actually costs the life of an innocent soul trapped
somewhere in a brutal oil war. Each time anyone anywhere takes a ride to
work, they fuel the violence. Regardless of how they earned that money.
Of course, the world didn’t see it that way. It was easier to blame the
conflict in the Middle East on religious or political motives. Why would an
honest, taxpaying, salaried IITian be responsible for someone’s death in a
far-off oil war?
Fool’s paradise, as the Bad F-ing Wolf calls it.
The root of violence was much more fundamental than that. Money. The
only thing that defined an individual’s worth today. The audio clips played
on Neha’s mind in a loop.
You are a fool to believe you deserve your comfortable life. Please tell
me again how you’ve worked hard for it? You boast about how you slogged
in college to earn that awesome job. You claim you’re booming the
economy with your trickle-down effect! Bullshit. If everyone in the world
had the same privileges as you, you’d be a nobody. A goddamn nobody.
Make no mistakes about it.
It was hard to sleep after that reminder every single day. There was no
question of sleep before that anyway, thanks to the animal cruelty videos
that came in two or three hours before the war videos.
Okay, sunrise at 6 a.m. War videos at 4 a.m. That puts the animal videos
between 1 a.m. and 2 a.m. When the hell does BFW sleep?
The animal video series revolved around humankind’s inhuman
exploitation of other living creatures. It didn’t only involve the meat
industry. A daily dose of videos constantly reminded Neha of grotesque
details of animal abuse. The very thought of consuming animal milk
sickened Neha. Could she bear the smell of coffee anymore? She hadn’t had
a sip of it in days — a first during her time at IIT.
Milk is blood. A cup of milk I drink in a minute costs a cow a lifetime of
torture. I sign death sentences for male calves, days into their infancy.
If only her head could explode and make the pain stop! Already dazed
by whiskey, she wanted even more. It was strange how the first time she
associated whiskey with death, she needed a beer to wash the feeling away.
But now, whiskey was all she needed, all the time.
Running away from whiskey isn’t making all that death and destruction
go away.
She wanted a full bottle. Hell, she needed it. It was her only medicine.
Scavenging among empty whiskey bottles hoping to salvage a drink before
Hassan arrived, suddenly she stopped. Something caught her attention
behind the pile of bottles.
Fatima’s Adidas shoes.
Something about them had bothered her when she was here before. The
day Madhukar killed himself. Neha crawled away from the pile, dusted the
shoes, and examined them. One was missing its shoelace. She brought it up
close for inspection. Dried mud cracked off its sole and fell on her hands as
reddish, powdery dust.
Where have I seen this kind of mud?
Her phone beeped.
BFW: I’m pleased with your progress on the videos. I haven’t had any
player before who could keep up with me. You’re rocking the leaderboards!
Neha: I’ll drink to that. Hooray. But I’m still unclear why Fatima blamed
me for her suicide. How many more videos do I need to watch? How long
will this go on?
BFW: Patience, patience. It’s interesting to watch you while you’re
watching the videos. I’m amazed by how well you held back tears after
what I sent you last night. You’re getting there. You’re about to be numb
enough to bear the truth.
Neha: What if I get too numb to worry about your threats? What if I refuse
to play anymore? What will you do if I paste black tape on my phone’s
cameras? How’ll you confirm whether I’m watching your stupid videos?
BFW: That’s the beauty of it. I know you won’t tape your camera. You won’t
interfere with the game. Because you want to play. You need to know
Fatima’s truth. That is the reason for your endurance. I know you’ve not
had enough yet. You have a long way to go, but you’re getting there. You
still have to take in more of the ugly truth of human life. Those war
atrocities and animal abuse videos you’re so fed up with are as real as all
the so-called goodness in the world.
Neha: Okay, forget about me for a moment. What if it was another player?
What if he wanted to quit on realizing this might actually kill him? What do
you do when a player has second thoughts?
BFW: Very few ever have second thoughts, and they’re easy to fix. Most
players don’t look back once they start Red Shark. Exactly like you. You
want to play the game. They want to play the game. Motivations for playing
differ, but every player wants to play. You’re playing to learn Fatima’s truth.
Others do it because they want to die.
Neha: Not Fatima. She did not want to die.
BFW: It’s useless to explain. You’ll find out when you’re ready. The wait is
worth it. You’re going to experience exactly what Fatima did, in that very
room where you sleep now.
Neha saw a half-full bottle of whiskey under Fatima’s bed. What luck! She
had finished every other drop in the room. Hassan would restock her supply
soon enough. Meanwhile, her newfound bottle would do. It was surprising
she hasn’t noticed for so many days. She pressed her lips against the bottle’s
opening like a lover’s last kiss.
BFW: Ironically, you need to be sober for this.
Neha: Not a chance.
She gulped another hearty swig, her free hand mindlessly playing with
Fatima’s shoe.
BFW: Ah, you finally found that bottle Fatima and you drank together
from.
How did he recognize the label on this bottle? My camera is simply not that
good. Maybe image processing software is enhancing his spy feed. In either
case, he can see much more than I thought.
Neha carefully slid Fatima’s shoe out of the frame of the camera’s lens.
Neha: Get on with it.
BFW: Patience, Neha. I promised you the answer. Let’s go back to the
approach you presented for solving my guesstimate. We agreed 240 of your
batch of 400 will live a happy life. I promised to prove to you that Fatima
lived a happier life than anybody else here on campus ever will.
Neha: You’re bad with promises.
BFW: I’ll make it all good now. Fatima realized a lot of what was really
going on with the world. She taught me an interesting theory. I’ve been
sharing it with a lot of players.
Neha: You’re still playing Red Shark with others?
BFW: Of course, I only promised to stop Red Shark on the IIT campus as
long as you play along. That doesn’t mean I can’t spread the joy on other
campuses.
Neha: But you said curators operate by territories. Have you displaced
someone else?
BFW: I like to consider it as territory expansion. Sometimes, I dismiss
curators who play Red Shark for the wrong reasons.
Neha: That’s a mighty bold statement — how can there be a single right
reason to play Red Shark? Also, what do you mean you dismiss curators?
Are you some kind of leader among them?
BFW: You don’t get to ask me questions for which you haven’t completed
tasks.
Neha: Right. I did your bloody guesstimate. Give me the answers you
promised for that. How is dead Fatima happier than her living batchmates?
BFW: She came up with a mathematical analogy for it: the shift of origin
concept in cartesian geometry. Your guesstimate approach wasn’t entirely
correct. You got a major part all wrong. Happiness isn’t quantified by
health, wealth, and all that.
Neha: Why not?
BFW: Happiness cannot be quantified using those metrics, simply because
happiness is a moving goal. You want a certain level of health, wealth,
wisdom, and youth. You’re unhappy till you get there. But once you do, the
origin has shifted! Because there’s someone out there doing even better.
Who in turn competes with someone even better. It’s endless. In that sense,
true happiness is for those who achieve an immovable goal — one
unaffected by shifting origins. When you achieve such a goal, you no longer
desire anything else. There is only one such goal in existence. True
happiness is only possible for those who achieve this real, immovable,
ultimate goal of all. Tell me now, can you guess the only immovable goal of
all humans? The only origin that doesn’t shift after you get there.
Neha: Death.
BFW: Exactly. The true pursuit of happiness lies in embracing death.
Screw what society thinks. Fatima wasn’t going to chase the meaningless
things society demanded of her. What good does society’s seal of approval
do? Does branding you happy or successful really make you so? Fatima cut
right to the chase and zoomed past the finishing line of life’s race. The 240
“lucky ones” in your guesstimate will waste their lives chasing promotions.
They’ll waste their money traveling around the world. Even worse, every
dollar they spend harms other living things. Regardless of how the spender
earned it! These lucky ones will chase, chase, and chase that shifting origin
of pseudo-happiness their whole lives. Each time they succeed, their
satisfaction requirements shift and they’ve got to do it all over again! More
money! More promotions! More vacations! More luxuries! More! More!
More! Only to find out the goal never stops moving. All this leads to a
lifelong rigmarole, only for everyone to end up at the same place.
Everyone’s ultimate promotion. They’re all going to be equal when they
meet at their one true common destination. In their dying moments, they’ll
realize how everything comes down to death. Whatever they did between
birth and death was a series of meaningless steps. The illusion of
happiness. Only grief is real.
Neha: Fatima came up with all of this?
BFW: I helped her see it clearly. But she had most of it figured out anyway.
Why can’t more people be like her? Despite the evidence for all to see. Look
at yourself!
Neha: What? How does it apply to me? Whatever happiness I’ve
experienced my whole life is not an illusion. Why do you say only my grief
is real?
BFW: If you hadn’t cleared IIT’s entrance exam, your grief would have
stuck forever — you’d take it to the grave. But the joy of being an IITian
lasted barely a week. As soon as your first-year academic rigor kicked in
and you were no longer the class topper. Did you look at yourself as a star
whenever you looked in the mirror?
Neha: So what? Fatima didn’t care about her grades — before or during
IIT. I picked a leaf out of her book. I stopped being upset over grades long
ago.
BFW: Fatima took it a step further. She didn’t care about what happens
after IIT either. Don’t you see her realization? Every year, so many commit
suicide because they didn’t get into IIT. Getting in was their only goal, and
was worth dying if they didn’t make it. What about the ones who made it?
Was that their end goal? No, things are only getting started. A few more
commit suicide on campus. Jobs, relationships, ragging, the list goes on.
But that’s not all. Are we blind to the number of young employees who
commit suicide every year? Not everyone commits suicide, obviously, but
those who know what they’re doing, have known it all along. Some do it
early, others fight for the lost cause anyway. Fatima saved herself a lot of
trouble.
Neha: Really? You want me to believe Fatima killed herself to save herself
the trouble of living a successful life?
BFW: No. I only explained why Fatima looked at suicide as a viable option.
What pushed her over the line is yet to come. A few more tasks and you’ll
be ready for the finale.
Neha: That’s it, I’m not playing this stupid game.
BFW: You know you can’t quit, Neha.
Neha: Watch me.
She put away her phone in her hip pocket. It couldn’t have been better
timed. Soft footsteps grew louder outside. The sounds stopped as a dark
silhouette appeared at the door.
It was Alok.
“Neha?” he asked.
“Quiet, Alok.” Neha gestured him to come inside and keep it low.
Alok gave her a thumbs up. “I knew it all along you’d be here,” he
whispered.
“What took you so long to find me then?” Neha hoped BFW couldn’t
hear them if they spoke in hushed tones.
“I can see alcohol beat me to it.” Alok pointed at the mess.
“How long has it been since I moved out?”
“Two weeks.”
“What brings you here now?” Neha kept gesturing Alok to speak softly.
“Your parents called. Your mom’s worrying herself sick. She didn’t buy
your digital detox and yoga therapy bullshit. She wants to talk to you
ASAP.”
“Shit. Can you call her back and tell her I’m fine? I’ll make them a call
soon.”
“Already did. That script stopped working last week. They know you
won’t call back like that. They need to speak to you.”
Neha’s phone beeped. She peeped into the screen, careful not to let
Alok see.
BFW: Don’t speak to your parents. Solitude is a key part of getting into
Fatima’s state of mind. Tell the fatso to get out. Or you’ll regret it.
Neha ground her teeth. Okay, so whispering was useless. The creep could
hear and see her regardless of what she did. She couldn’t take this anymore.
At least not for now. She put away her phone.
Rubbing her eyes, she said to Alok. “I promise I’ll give them a call.”
She wasn’t going to. Not until the game ended the way she wanted it to.
“How’re the pups?”
“Why don’t you ever visit if you care so much? Curie’s been looking for
you too.”
“What’re you feeding them?”
“I didn’t come here to talk about the pups. Do you have any idea how
pissed the Dean’s gonna be if he finds you here?”
“He won’t. You’re going to make sure of it.”
“Why won’t you move back into our room?” Alok’s cheeks flushed and
his face turned pink as he finished his sentence. He frowned and continued
quickly. “What’re you doing here anyway?”
“Alok, you’re going to have to trust me. I’m making some inroads into
what Fatima went through before killing herself.”
“You’re playing the game!” Alok’s eyed widened.
“I’m not,” Neha lied. “Maybe I should. Do I have a choice? You haven’t
yet traced the origin of the curator’s account we saw on Fatima’s phone.”
“I’m trying, okay? If it were so easy, this goddamn Red Shark
phenomenon wouldn’t have ever become so big.”
“I know, Alok. That’s why I need to do this alone.”
“That proves you’re playing the game! Tell me the truth. You picked me
as your roommate only because you thought I’d kill myself, right? You just
wanted to keep an eye on the weakest of the IIT tribe!” Alok fell on his
knees.
“Why would you say that?” Neha stood and walked toward Alok. “I
moved in with you because I’m banking on you to find out the curator’s
identity and location.”
Her flattery fell flat.
Alok slapped his forehead. “I’m so stupid. You moved out shortly after
the Red Shark suicides stopped at IIT. You saw that I was no longer in
danger of playing Red Shark. All that bullshit you fed me about being my
roommate for my cybersecurity expertise! How could I have been so
stupid?”
“Alok, how do I make you believe I really wanted your help? I still do.”
“Then why haven’t you told me what you’ve learned about this damned
game ever since you moved out? You don’t need me. You never did. You
just thought I was weak. You’re right. I haven’t helped. I’m glad you’re
making progress without me anyway.” Alok looked away as Neha put an
arm over his shoulder. He held back a sob as he mumbled, “Please promise
me you’ll stay safe.”
Neha nodded.
“In return,” Alok promised, “I’ll keep saving your ass from getting
caught in Fatima’s room. If the college authorities ask, I’ll tell them you’re
still my roommate.”
“Thanks, Alok.” Neha’s eyes welled. “If my parents call again, could
you ask them to transfer some money to my bank account?”
“Should I tell them what you’re spending it on?” Alok pointed at
alcohol bottles lying around. “You promised you’d call them. You can ask
for money yourself. But seriously, why don’t you come back for a couple of
days? I won’t probe into anything you don’t want to discuss. Besides, Curie
and her pups will be excited to see you.”
“That reminds me,” Neha said. “We still don’t know what happened to
her other missing puppy, right?”
“Not a clue,” Alok said.
Neha produced Fatima’s laceless Adidas shoe and held it up for Alok to
see. Dried mud crumbled between the gaps of her fingers as she tightened
her grip around it.
“I’ve got an idea,” Neha said. “But I need your help.”
Her phone vibrated right as she finished speaking. She pulled it out and
saw exactly what she had expected.
BFW: Bad idea. Don’t involve him. Also, if you’re about to do what I think
you are, I have one word for you. Don’t.
But she was going to anyway.
26
The Plunge
Late January
Alok followed Neha from a distance. They approached the jetty. Neha had
brought Fatima’s Adidas shoes in her backpack. The sun had just started to
set behind the auditorium across the jetty. Neha’s clunky, stinking hair, last
shampooed weeks ago, swayed in the evening breeze. She turned and asked
Alok to hurry.
Move it, Fatty.
A group of students on the jetty were drinking beer and smoking
cigarettes. Neha’s haggardly state, zombie-like gait, and stench cut short
their party.
Maybe that’s why Alok’s keeping his distance. Loser.
The students chugged down their drinks faster than would have liked.
Stubbing out their cigarettes on their way off the jetty, they looked away as
Neha walked past. She hopped onto the bobbing wooden planks. The looks
on their faces said it all. No doubt she must have looked like a ghost.
Neha placed her backpack on the jetty’s soggy wooden planks. She
pulled out Fatima’s shoes and held them in one hand.
“A missing brick over there drove Curie nuts,” Neha said. She pointed
at the gap in the line of bricks along the edge of the lake. “Follow me.”
Alok trotted along, ignoring the drunk students who gave him sidelong
glances. “Neha, what’s going on?”
“Here,” Neha said. She crouched near the gap in the line of bricks. She
removed the rock she had put there to unsuccessfully pacify Curie that
night. “See this mud?”
Alok’s bent over to see. The simple act triggered a civil war inside his
overweight body. His head swirled, knees rebelled, stomach retreated, back
surrendered, and his weight triumphed. “What about it?”
“It’s brown. Exactly like most of the mud elsewhere on campus. With
one difference.”
“Yeah?”
“The bricks soak lakewater. Their reddish color washes off into the
surrounding mud.”
“Okay. So?”
“Does this look familiar?” Neha held up Fatima’s laceless shoe. The
dried mud on its sole had the same reddish tinge. “Fatima always wore
these shoes, throughout her time at IIT. But not on the night she died.”
“Well, how could anyone wear them? One of them’s missing a
shoelace.”
“Exactly. She wore these shoes for the last time over right here. Hence
the dried reddish mud on their soles. Which means she had both shoelaces
intact at that point.”
“Why would she lose a shoelace here?”
“Strange, isn’t it? That too right around the time Curie lost her puppy.
Why was she whimpering at the missing brick? Obviously, she wasn’t
worried about it causing the lake to flood. How stupid of me to ask her that!
She was telling me something else. Her puppy was missing.”
Alok’s eyebrows rose. “You don’t think?” He pointed his thumb at the
lake.
“Yes,” Neha said. “That’s why I need your help. Can you swim?”
“Ewww. There’s no chance I’m entering the lake.”
“I can’t swim, Alok.”
“I won’t do it. No freaking way!” Alok stepped back.
“Fine. Get someone to save me if I begin to drown.” She took off her
shoes.
Before Alok could respond, Neha tossed her phone and Fatima’s shoes
on the grass. After a glance at the missing brick and another at Alok, she
plunged into the lake.
“Neha, what’re you doing? Oh my god!” Alok barked.
A guard heard the commotion. He rushed to the spot. Neha paddled
furiously, barely able to keep her head above the water. Her toes just about
touched the lake’s slanting bed. It got deeper the further she went from the
edge. Neha hoped what she was searching for was nearby. Preferably close
to the missing brick.
A flurry of students swarmed the jetty.
The guard blew his whistle. “You damn drunkards are in the lake again!
Get out right now.”
Neha paddled around with her arms, struggling to keep her head afloat.
“I’m not drunk,” Neha lied. Determined not to come out empty-handed, she
told herself it was right there. She didn’t doubt it and finding it would bury
the argument.
“Hold onto this!” The guard offered his outstretched baton. He got
closer to the water.
“One second,” Neha said.
That’s all she would need. Her toes felt the three horrible things tied
together at her feet. She kicked aside the beer bottles and rocks underwater.
It was clear for extraction.
“Okay, I’m coming out. Give me the stick,” she said to the guard.
The guard stretched his upper body and the baton until he could no
further. With his feet planted firmly on the bricks, he stepped several inches
into the water. Alok held the guard’s other hand for support.
“Okay, don’t let go,” Neha commanded. She held the baton with one
hand. “Ready?”
The guard nodded. Onlooking students stood along the line of bricks.
Their faces bore an array of confusion, amusement, anxiety, and
indifference.
Without warning, Neha held her breath and dived. Her left hand clasped
on the baton, holding on for dear life. The unexpected move caught the
guard and Alok off balance. The bricks under the guard’s shoes dislodged
and fell into the water. Neha watched the bricks sink to the bottom, going
past her face as dark shapes. Her vision got impaired by the dark, muddy
water. She stretched her right hand toward the bottom to grab what her toe
found.
The guard tugged on his baton with Alok’s help. They dragged Neha
out. She spat out muddy water and breathed in as much air as her lungs
allowed. Coughing out the last of the filthy water, she placed her finding on
the grass for all to see.
Alok puked at the sight. The guard backed away, pinching his nose and
swallowing the curses he had in mind for Neha.
“I told you,” Neha said to Alok.
He wiped his chin with the back of his hand, only to throw up again.
The sight was appalling. Tied around the dead puppy’s neck, Fatima’s
lace went around the brick two times. Whether the unfortunate puppy was
was dead before ending up in the lake would remain a mystery forever. It
didn’t matter. She had evidence of the animal abuse task Fatima carried out
while playing Red Shark.
* * *
For anyone else, it would’ve been a walk of shame from the lake to the
Dean’s office. But it didn’t matter what others thought of her anymore.
Dripping from head to toe, Neha trudged along with Alok. Stares of
judgment and disgust fell on her from students and staff alike. She
responded with a poker face.
Sumit stood with the rest of the Students Council members outside the
Dean’s office. Neha walked past him without as much as a glance. Vikas
backed away as Neha went by. She pushed open the door and walked up to
the Dean’s desk. Prof. Reema Badami sat there with folded arms next to
Dean Shekhar. Arjun followed Neha. He offered her a handful of tissues. It
was useless. The lake water was so bad it would need all the tissue rolls on
campus to clean her.
“What do you have to say for yourself?” Dean Shekhar slammed his fist
on the table. “Diving into the lake is reason enough to suspend you.”
Prof. Reema added, “Not that you’re attending classes or placement
sessions anyway. Where have you been all this time?”
“In my room, studying.” Neha turned toward Alok. “Didn’t he tell
you?”
“Yes, he did,” Dean Shekar admitted, squinting his eyes as he turned to
Alok. “Why did you let her enter the lake?”
Alok shrugged. “She did it before I could stop her.”
Neha tossed a soggy tissue on the floor. Right next to the dustbin. “I had
a hunch the I would find evidence Fatima played Red Shark. And I did.”
“Neha, let it go,” Dean Shekhar said. “We haven’t had a Red Shark
suicide on campus for quite some time. We’re over it. It means we’re doing
something right. Do you have any idea how many students Red Shark is
killing in the rest of the country?”
Neha nodded.
“Why won’t you return to normalcy? Go take a bath for god’s sake and
get some rest. I want to see you in class tomorrow.”
“I prefer studying by myself.” Neha plucked a soggy, dead leaf from her
hair and let it drop. This time, it fell on the other side of the dustbin.
“Please aim for the dustbin, will you?” Prof. Reema leaned back. She
grimaced as she watched the brown water oozing out of the rotten leaf.
“Neha.” Dean Shekhar snapped his fingers twice. “Today’s the 29th of
January. We’re barely a few weeks away from the final placements. Vikas
worked day and night to convince recruiters to not back out due to fears of
Red Shark. Our major recruiters have agreed to hire in large numbers from
IIT. The student body could use your help. If you promise to behave, I’d
like you to resume your duties as the President.”
“You haven’t replaced me yet?” Neha’s tone was incredulous. “Well, I
don’t want to be President. I can’t pretend everything’s normal.”
“What do you mean pretend?” Prof. Reema slapped her palms on the
desk. The Dean’s coffee mug wobbled.
“Let’s stop pretending Fatima didn’t play Red Shark,” Neha said. “We
lost Madhukar and Akriti to Red Shark too. Do we have answers to why
and how they played Red Shark? How can we pretend everything’s okay all
of a sudden? What makes you think no more deaths will happen at IIT?
Even if they don’t, why such apathy for our dead students by pretending
that it’s normal?”
“Enough, Neha.” The Dean waved his hand with a decisive air. “Go
clean yourself and report to class tomorrow. I want to see you in every
placement prep session. Alok, take her away. I want you to send me a daily
report on Neha’s wellbeing. In addition to what you report to your warden.”
“Understood, sir.”
They left the office and began their walk to H12 in complete silence.
Once they were out of everyone’s earshot, Alok cleared his throat.
“Neha, tell me the truth. How did you know you’d find those things in
the lake?”
“I had a hunch.”
“Bullshit. The curator told you, didn’t he? You’ve been playing Red
Shark all along.”
“Alok, why do you care? You’ve been no help. So much for your
cybersecurity expertise.”
Alok swallowed the harsh words. They walked on without exchanging
another word until Neha turned toward Fatima’s hostel.
“Where do you think you’re going?” Alok raised his hands in protest.
“To continue my work in Fatima’s room. Do you have my back for the
daily reports?”
“I keep my promises. But don’t expect anything more if you can’t trust
me in return.”
Neha raised a thumb but said nothing. She hastened her pace toward
Fatima’s room. It didn’t matter anymore if the hostel guards or students saw
her. They hadn’t cared about her whereabouts. She was not missed. Why
would they care where she spent her time? Nobody was dying. She had to
keep it that way. It was for their own good that she was staying in Fatima’s
room.
What do I get in return?
She couldn’t think of anything exciting. The best she had was that she
never stood in a queue for the common washroom on Fatima’s floor.
* * *
The clear morning sky outside should have brought her a cheer. Instead, as
Neha looked out of the window in Inspector Kamal’s cabin, she saw sad,
long shadows under the trees instead of the bright sun above.
The glass is half empty. Is this how your thoughts started to go downhill,
Fatima?
The sharp sounds of shoes on the unclean tiles stopped. Inspector
Kamal hunched forward, careful not to spill coffee from his paper cup.
“Are you playing Red Shark?”
Neha looked away. “Does it matter?”
“Of course it matters.” He raised his voice. “Look at me when I talk.”
Too late. Neha had already found a dirty spot on the floor to stare at.
Inspector Kamal muttered an apology for his tone and looked around.
They were alone.
“Did you throw that puppy in the lake?” He folded his arms.
“No, but I knew it would be there.”
“How?”
“It was easy after I figured out Fatima did it.”
Inspector Kamal sipped his coffee. “Are you eating regular meals?”
“What?”
“I saw your records in the cafeteria register. You haven’t visited the
mess in weeks.”
“I order room service.”
“No. There are no orders in your old room, nor in Alok’s room under
your name.”
“I don’t order food from the same night canteen every night. I like the
variety.”
“Why is there no record of your orders anywhere?” He had kept a rather
keen eye on Neha’s life.
“They keep records only for orders placed on credit. I settle in cash.”
Neha bit her lip.
“Interesting. How much cash do you have lying around?”
“That’s none of your business!” Neha’s jaw hung.
“It is. Some Red Shark victims burned bundles of cash as part of their
tasks.”
Neha’s jaw hung. “I have a student loan I will repay over several years.
Delightful as it sounds, I don’t have spare cash to burn.”
“Since you order your meals from different canteens, you must be
making a lot of phone calls?”
“I prefer to walk down and check out the specials before placing my
order. I do it in person. Where’s this going, Inspector? I can handle my cash
and my meals. Is there anything important you want to discuss?”
“Why are there absolutely no incoming or outgoing calls on your
phone?”
“You saw my telephone records? Am I under arrest?”
“I’ve spoken to your parents.” Inspector Kamal sighed.
Neha looked up. Cold sweat began to build on her forehead. “What did
you tell them?”
“Something they would much prefer hearing in your voice.”
“What did you say?”
“I told them you are alright. Fatima’s unfortunate death isn’t affecting
you adversely.”
“Thanks.”
“Have I lied to them?”
“No. Why would you think that? Did the Dean or Prof. Badami tell you
I’m playing Red Shark? Don’t believe them. They’re just making nervous
guesses.”
“And nervous they should be. Red Shark’s taking thirty-five lives a day
in India. IIT seems to have curbed it somehow, but they’re still cautious.
They feel it’s best to get students to focus on academics and placements.”
“Do you think they’re right, Inspector? Will no more suicides happen at
IIT?”
Inspector Kamal tossed his empty paper cup in the dustbin. “Why do I
get the feeling you know more about this than me?”
Neha made puppy eyes. “I don’t know what you mean.”
“You have something to do with why Red Shark has stopped at IIT,
don’t you?”
* * *
It was hard to tell the time. Fatima’s room didn’t care what time of day or
night it was. Neha chugged away till the whiskey bottle was left without a
drop. She vaguely remembered leaving the room into the pitch dark
corridor outside.
Neha: Why no video last night? Is my score getting too high for the
leaderboards to handle?
BFW: Do you think this is funny? I warned you not to involve Alok.
Neha: He doesn’t know anything. I only needed his help to pull me out of
the lake.
BFW: How did you know what was in the lake?
Neha: Why did you make Fatima do it? The Inspector thinks I did it.
BFW: In a way you did. He’s not wrong.
Neha knew better than to argue.
BFW: I didn’t make Fatima kill the puppy. She had the option not to.
Killing the puppy was an optional task designed for the player to
experience the futility of life. I only gave her options to speed up her
journey to every problem’s ultimate solution. Suicide eliminates the root
cause of every problem in the world. But not everyone is cut out for it. Only
the bravest die by their own hands, at the time and place of their choosing.
Red Shark makes you a big fish in a small pond. It gives a noble death to
real winners. What’s more, the best players become immortal legends on the
Red Shark leaderboards. But most of the world isn’t meant for Red Shark.
People die every day like small fish in a large ocean. They’re forgotten
forever.
Neha: What did that innocent puppy ever do to you?
BFW: Don’t grieve for the puppy. You must learn not to grieve for Fatima
— she did what made her happy. Don’t feel sad at the thought of your own
death. Realize that your life doesn’t count — only your death does. Life may
be an over-glorified journey, but death is the ultimate destination. In death,
the lucky 240 ones rejoin the “unlucky” 160 — nothing about them ever
matters. They leave no true legacy behind. We are all alone in birth and
death. Every relationship is an illusion.
Neha: You told me that before disabling the calendar and clock on my
phone. I must admit, it worked.
BFW: Everything that I tell you works! You’re just supposed to follow my
instructions. But you didn’t. You snatched away a lesson I wanted to teach
you at a later time. I warned you not to do it. Regardless, you fished the
dead puppy out of the lake. Worse, you went against my direct orders —
unforgivable! You bypassed many stages of Fatima’s emotional journey
toward her glorious suicide. You won’t ever learn the truth like this. You
were supposed to stick to the rules!
Neha: I didn’t learn much truth by following your rules either. Nothing
you’ve told me justifies why Fatima was right in killing herself or why she
blamed me for it.
BFW: Enough. As punishment for interfering with my game, I will resume
Red Shark at IIT. Your campus is lagging behind its peers in its Red Shark
suicide tally! Who’d have ever thought IIT would someday chase other
colleges? This is my last warning. Don’t interfere with the way I run this
game. I’m the master and you’re my puppet.
27
Survivor’s Guilt
Early February
She awoke on the jetty. Sunrise cracked into her squinted eyes. She rubbed
her eyes and looked around. Embarrassed to see the watchman staring at
her, Neha nudged the empty whiskey with her foot. The bottle rolled off the
woodwork and fell with a splash into the lake. The watchman looked away,
nodding his head in disgust. The only saving grace was the few students
who saw her didn’t give her a second glance. Dressed in business formals,
they scampered on toward the auditorium. Their hurry could only mean
their dream company was conducting a pre-placement talk.
Microsoft’s posters adorned every notice board. The students wearing
giveaway dress code confirmed Neha’s suspicions: Microsoft was on
campus for their pre-placement talk. In another universe, Neha would be at
the hub of it. She’d be the one welcoming Microsoft’s recruitment team at
IIT and escorting them to the auditorium. She would have worn a business
suit and made small talk to gauge how many students they might hire. With
a little diplomacy, she could probably set a new placements record. But of
course, this could only happen in another universe. A universe where Neha
still gave a damn.
A universe where Fatima was still alive.
The aftertaste of whiskey in her mouth was disgusting. With her
business formals locked away in her old room ages ago, Neha forgot what
her favorite suit was.
Not that I need it. I’m good the way I am.
The t-shirt she wore was unwashed for weeks.
BFW: I thought a night out in the open would do you some good.
Neha: Just tell me who you’re going after next.
BFW: You’ll find out soon enough. Ah, I honestly never thought I’d get to
finish off this one. All your fault though. You had your chance to make me
stop the other games.
Neha: I’m not falling for any of this. You can’t manipulate me into thinking
I killed Fatima. You can’t make me believe I am responsible for Madhukar,
Akriti, or anyone else you kill at IIT.
BFW: It’s about time you saw a new video.
Neha: No more of that. I’ve had it with your PETA videos and someone
losing limbs on landmines.
BFW: Not even a video of Fatima? Professing just how much she loved
you!
Neha: What?
BFW: Watch this. She told me exactly what you meant to her. Not to
mention, how little of her love you could ever return no matter how hard
you tried.
Neha watched in horror as the video downloaded to her device. Even before
the video finished downloading, its thumbnail showed a gut-wrenching
sight. Fatima in her room with the lights dimmed, her clothes soaked with
sweat and tears. The video played automatically after the download
progress bar reached a hundred percent.
Fatima looked into the camera and adjusted it until she was in the center
of the frame. From the angle, it was evident her phone’s camera pointed at
her from the bookshelf.
“Neha,” Fatima said. “I’m so sorry for doing this to us. Really, there is
no other way. You wouldn’t understand. I’m not the only one killing me.
I’m not the only one dying with my suicide. A part of you will die with me.
The part of you that lived inside me in ways you’d never understand. Don’t
get me wrong, you understood me better than anyone else I ever knew. Yes,
I know you loved me. But not the way I loved you.”
Fatima, oh my god.
Neha clutched her chest. The video went on.
Fatima meant every word she said. “That’s where we differ. You could
never relate to how I felt. We were like most other pairs of best friends. We
did things together and looked out for each other. But we had different
underlying motives. You did it for a friendship, I did it for love. That made
you too good to be true. You outdid me everywhere, and I let you — it
meant so much to you. For three years you took the spotlight and I wished
nothing different. I wrote Madness in Mumbai to immortalize how I felt
about you. It was fitting you played the role in the movie and me for the
live performance. Truth be told, I would happily forego it for you every
single time. For me, it was never about being in the spotlight or in the
shadows. The stage was your friend, just as the backstage was mine. What
difference would an hour in the limelight at Mood M’s finale make? I was
destined for a lifetime of being in the shadows. Confined to the darkness of
being inside the closet. You were going to be the end of me. Because no
matter what we did, you’d never want to be with me the way I was meant to
be with you.”
Why didn’t you tell me, Fatima? That was no reason to die. Oh my god,
what did you do?
* * *
Over the next couple of days, only posters and corporate branding changed.
Relaxed dress codes meant the bigshot recruiters had finished their
presentations. It was time for smaller firms and tech startups for their pre-
placements talks. Neha hadn’t applied for a single company. How many
deadlines must have passed! It didn’t matter. She hadn’t updated her CV in
months.
It had never felt so guilty to be alive. The feeling lingered wherever she
went. Meeting Curie and her four pups — they were growing so fast —
provided momentary respite. Alok was aloof and distant. How could she
ask him if he’d cracked into IIT’s local network encryption? It didn’t matter
anymore. Why bother Alok with finding the lion’s cave, when she had her
head in the lion’s mouth. Bottle after bottle of whiskey did little to soothe
her pain. Neither did the fresh air at the jetty. Headaches and hangovers
meant sleep was rare as much as it was required.
A permanent, semi-dead daze was Neha’s new reality. Fatima’s room
seemed to be the only place she would catch a few moments of sleep.
Was I responsible for what you did, Fatima?
Caught amidst the horrors of Fatima’s videos while becoming a stranger
to the date and time, Neha turned to whiskey. The sun warmed her head
evenly from above. It meant it was a sunny afternoon. Neha saw a blur of
students walk past her like zombies. Students walked past Neha in a blur,
treading onward like zombies.
What if I’m the zombie and this is how we perceive humans?
A familiar face emerged from the haze and approached her. Those thick-
rimmed glasses were unmistakable. Prof. Reema Badami placed her hand
on Neha’s shoulder.
“Where have you been?” Prof. Badami’s voice reminded Neha of her
mother.
“In my room, Mom — I mean — ma’am.” Neha looked away, praying
her breath didn’t smell like whiskey.
Been ages since I spoke to you, Mom. Can’t wait for this to get over.
“You look like you could use coffee,” Prof. Badami offered.
“Yes, ma’am. Thank you.”
They sat in H11’s cafeteria. Prof. Badami ordered green tea. Neha asked
for black tea.
“What’s the matter? No more coffee with cream? Is there anything
wrong with the milk” Prof. Badami asked coolly.
“What?” Neha wrinkled her brows.
Prof. Badami looked on either side before leaning closer. “Did you do
it?”
“Do what, ma’am?” Neha’s heart skipped a beat.
“Sixteen girls staying in H11 fell ill yesterday. All complained of severe
stomach pain.”
“Must have been something they ate.” Neha shrugged.
“H11’s mess served soup last night.” Prof. Badami shifted back her
weight on the chair and slunk into it. “Three of the girls raised an alarm
shortly after dinner. They admitted themselves to the infirmary. I’ve asked
the others to get admitted as a precaution.”
“What’s wrong with them?”
“Glass powder. Traces of which I suspect will still be there in the
utensils used to cook the soup. I wonder if you know anything about it.”
“Ma’am,” Neha said. “This is serious.”
“I know that,” Prof. Badami snapped. “Tell me if you did it.”
He has resumed Red Shark games at IIT. It’s my fault if a single one of
those girls dies. He wouldn’t have done this if I stuck by his rules. Wait,
that’s what he wants me to think.
“No, ma’am. This is bad. Red Shark’s back.”
“What?”
“We have to stop it before it gets worse.”
“What do you mean?”
“Please, ma’am, pass orders to the hostel guards. Watchmen must pay
attention to the stray dogs and cats on campus. It’s critical we place a
dedicated guard in H12 to keep an eye on Alok’s room. From a distance.”
“Why Alok’s room in particular?”
“It’s the only one housing four puppies.”
You’re going to task players with harming Curie’s remaining puppies.
You’re baiting me, aren’t you, you Bad F-ing Wolf? Well, I’ll play along.
The only time you told me anything worthwhile about Fatima was after I
broke your rules and you punished me. You think you can punish me by
killing people at IIT. Well, I’m not your puppet anymore. I’m going to stop
you.
Neha pulled out her phone. Without waiting for her tea, Neha darted out
of the cafeteria. Prof. Badami followed, sending away the waiter with rapid
hand gestures as she broke into a brisk walk. The waiter lunged, hoping to
give the parting ladies their beverages and receive his tip. His haste ensured
neither happened. He tripped and fell flat on the floor. The paper cups and
their hot beverages created a mess on the freshly wiped floor.
“Follow me, ma’am. We need to tell the Dean.” Neha texted with one
hand, keeping a few feet ahead of the already huffing and puffing Prof.
Badami.
Neha: Who did it? The glass powder in the canteen food? Weren’t your
tasks restricted to self-harm? Why’re you making them hurt others?
BFW: Why don’t you find out yourself before someone dies?
* * *
Visiting the Dean’s office was never fun. This time it was even worse. Neha
saw silhouettes of screaming parents flocking the corridor. Prof. Badami
gestured to a security man to escort them inside.
When they got inside, the Dean looked up from his desk but didn’t offer
them seats. He couldn’t — the office was as overcrowded as the pub outside
IIT during happy hour. Dean Shekhar sat in the center, surrounded by the
fuming parents and siblings of a hospitalized student. Reports indicated
massive internal bleeding.
“Why can’t I trust IIT to keep my daughter safe? As if that Red Shark
thing wasn’t bad enough, now we have to put up with glass powder in
hostel meals?” The father’s face turned red midway through his sentence.
The Dean crossed his hands and frowned. “IIT is the only major
academic institution in India to have overcome the Red Shark challenge. Do
you think it was a fluke? Our administration’s commitment to keeping our
students safe is unparalleled.”
Neha opened her mouth to protest, but Prof. Badami’s stare was a
formidable deterrent. “Not in front of the parents,” she warned.
After the furious family, Dean Shekhar stood and scampered toward
them. “What is it?”
“Sir, Red Shark is going to strike us again.”
The Dean slapped his forehead. “Can’t you drop it? We’re two weeks
from placements. Do you know hard Vikas worked to bring in recruiters?
This is the distraction everyone needs. Why do you only talk about Red
Shark whenever I see you? Look, I don’t care if you’re interested in landing
a job. But you better not get in the way of the four hundred others who’ve
toiled for this. Prof. Reema, get her out of here.”
“Shekhar,” Prof. Badami said. “She’s not lying.” She caught Neha’s
gaze. “Look, I don’t know how you kept Red Shark out of IIT for so long. I
just know you did it. You need to pull us through all the way. We’re so close
to term-end. Tell us what you need to ensure our placements aren’t
interrupted.”
“Prof. Reema!” Dean Shekhar slammed his fist on the desk. “How can
you say Neha kept Red Shark out of IIT so far?”
“She’s not lying, sir,” Neha said, imitating the way Prof. Reema had
said it. “But it’s no longer in my hands. You need to trust me.”
Dean Shekhar gave Prof. Badami a perplexed look. “Are you sure?”
Prof. Badami nodded.
He shrugged and looked at Neha. “Okay, what do you want me to do?”
* * *
Am I dead yet? What year is it?
Fatima’s room had now become the only place she could grab some
sleep. Everywhere else, Neha was a fish out of water.
“They’re looking for you.” Alok barged into the room, panting.
A whiff of the evening air followed him.
“Who?”
“Who else? The Dean and Badami.” His hand soothed his palpitating
chest. “They’re waiting for you outside my room. I told them you’re in the
library. They refused to budge until you returned. I offered to step out and
bring you back.”
“What do they want?”
“They didn’t say. But the big news on campus is two guys were caught
with poorly cutout Red Shark emblems. Their identities are withheld. As
per gossip doing the rounds, one of them is an H2 guy.”
Neha’s eyes sparked. “How did they catch them?”
“Screw you, Neha. I’m disappointed. You just don’t trust me. Why did I
have to find out from the Dean? He arrived, showering praises in your
name. He said you were right to ask for a guard to spy on my room. I had
no clue that’s why he was hanging around for the past couple of nights.
Why couldn’t you have told me?”
To keep BFW from killing you, you baboon.
Neha frowned. “For your own good.” Whiskey and frustration united to
worsen her slur. “Tell me how they were caught.”
“The guard spying on my room caught one of the guys stealing two
pups from my room. This was right after I went to meet Prof. Surendar.
Dammit, they won’t tell me the damn puppy thief’s name. I’d have beaten
him to a pulp. It took Inspector Kamal to pry him open. He confessed and
led the cops to his partner. Both had Red Sharks carved on their thighs.”
“I knew it. What more does the Dean want from me?”
“He says he wants to thank you.”
“Better now than later. I bet he’ll feel a lot less grateful after placements
are done.”
“Oh, come on, don’t say that. Follow me or I’ll send them here.”
Neha followed her bulky ex-roommate, her eyes glued to her phone
along the way.
BFW: This game is supposed to last fifty days you know. But you’re special.
It wouldn’t surprise me if we went beyond the stipulated timeframe. We’re in
no rush, right? I want to do whatever it takes for you to learn the truth. As
promised, you’ll learn everything you unwittingly signed up for.
Neha: Do you still think I’ll kill myself at the end of the fifty days?
BFW: I’d be surprised if you wanted to live after that.
Neha: Whatever you do, I won’t do it. I’ll prove your game cannot kill. It
could not have killed Fatima. You did it. Sooner or later, you’ll try it on me.
That’s where I’ll get you. Fifty days or fifty years, I’ll play as long as it
takes to catch you.
BFW: Excellent! Poor Fatima, if only she knew things could get worse even
after she died! She expected nothing would compete for your attention after
her death. But you’re self-centered! Trying to outdo Fatima even in the Red
Shark game!
Neha: What the hell does that mean?
BFW: You made Fatima think you were too good for her. Suicide was her
final call for your attention. How wrong she was! You aren’t in this for her.
It was never about her. You got over Fatima’s death the moment her fingers
stopped twitching. You’re here only to prove Red Shark is conquerable. You
want to do it. The sheer arrogance! You’re so blind, you don’t see the only
thing you want to prove is that you’re better than Fatima. By surviving the
very thing that killed her!
Neha: I don’t know what to say.
BFW: You’ve already made your point! Fatima killed herself after playing
Red Shark. You won’t do it. It proves I was right all along — I can’t force
people to kill themselves. That’s how it was with Fatima too. Do you want
to see her farewell video?
Neha’s heart skipped a beat. With trembling hands, she began to type her
reply. Before she could send it, BFW had already made his move.
BFW: Obviously, it’ll be too much to watch in one go, despite your stomach
for my videos. Let’s not forget, this is punishment for diving into the lake.
There’s only one way I will give you Fatima’s last message. I’ll split her
video into ten parts. You’ll get one part every day for the next ten days. This
time, I’ll give you only one task and ten days to do it. I won’t even spy on
you when you do the task. Promise. All I will ask you on the tenth days is
for evidence of the task. Before giving you the last part of the video. This is
your punishment, and I won’t have it any other way.
Neha: You didn’ tell me anything about the task itself.
BFW: Remember the clean, smooth outlines of the Red Shark insignia on
Fatima’s right thigh?
How could Neha ever forget the sight? Even if she lived a hundred years,
her visions of the Red Shark carved on Fatima’s soft skin would haunt till
her last breath. That horrible day in the morgue. Fatima’s right thigh.
Grotesque as it was, it was a piece of art.
BFW: I hope you have steady hands. Your task is to outdo Fatima’s Red
Shark insignia. I want to see it directly after you’ve made it, on the tenth
day. You’re going to need a hell lot more than just whiskey. Remember,
carving the insignia on your skin is not just a task you must do in exchange
for Fatima’s last video. It’s also your punishment for breaking my rules.
Neha: What kind of sadist comes up with such horrible tasks?
BFW: If you find this punishment horrible, you really don’t want to
disappoint me by failing to complete it by the tenth day. The punishment for
refusing punishment is much worse.
28
Last Rendezvous
Early to Mid-February
Despite seeming easy at the onset, ten days turned out to be too much to
keep track of. Neha broke down on day two. Short as the videos had been,
the first two showed Fatima getting ready for her suicide. Hours before the
Mood M opening ceremony. How easily she slipped into those short denim
shorts. The casual manner she pulled on the grey Mood M sweatshirt. It was
like any other day. Yet, it was like none other. Nothing would ever be the
same ever again.
But not for Fatima. For her, everything would freeze in place after a few
hours. One jump. One moment of courage. An eternity of peace. The way
she said it sent shudders down Neha’s spine long after switching off the
video.
Neha: I won’t last ten days. I’ll be honest. I haven’t started to cut myself
yet.
BFW: Take your time. This is supposed to be hard. It’s also a punishment,
remember? You have eight more days. If I were you I’d start by day four at
the latest. It won’t get easier if you wait beyond. The last thing you want is
to go into day nine without a nick. Your hands will tremble at the thought of
cutting out the entire insignia. With only the last part of Fatima’s video to
go.
Neha: I think you’re worried I’ll kill myself before carving Red Shark on
myself. You fear you’ll lose the credit for my game if I die without the
insignia. It’ll screw up your leaderboard, isn’t it?
BFW: You misunderstand me every single time! What kind of monster do
you think I am? Do you think my curator’s score matters more than your
life? You’re wrong!
Neha: You better hope so. Either way, I’m not killing myself.
BFW: I don’t care who gets the credit for your death. The reward is in the
act of your death itself.
Neha: I’ve broken records for watching videos. That must count for
something. When have I denied you an interesting task in return for
information?
BFW: Guess the value of the perfect score for completing all tasks. Let’s
say every record breaks on the way while finishing off tasks. How huge
would be the points haul? Guess again. It’s orders of magnitude smaller
than the points earned for a single game over. Why bother with a few
fractional points after tiring tasks? When your death can propel our scores
by thousands!
Neha: That explains why almost everyone who plays Red Shark dies. The
penalty for not completing a game is simply too high.
BFW: It typically costs the curator a couple of leaderboard ranks. Nothing
the next game cant fix. The real penalty is for the player. They can’t go back
to society. Red Shark can’t allow them to live their cowardly lives in peace!
We make it hell to prove that death was their only hope of freedom. By
remote wiping their phones of all traces of Red Shark, they have nothing to
show of what they went through. They get accused of being attention
seekers — the fake Red Shark players. Many get arrested for that! I’ll tell
you a little secret. The reason why the Red Shark insignia is so important.
You may think it’s proof they played the game. But it’s not! Any crazy person
can carve a Red Shark on his body! But only the cowards who quit Red
Shark know their scars are real. Their phones and laptops behave as if Red
Shark never happened. Maybe it was only a bad dream. But then the
insignia on their flesh burns brings them back to hell. What if it was not a
dream? Regardless of what they do, the bloody cowards are forever at my
mercy. Red Shark may have disappeared, but not without stealing their
lives. Bank details, emails, photos, darkest secrets, even their audio
samples. We have it all, ready for use and in all sorts of cybercrimes. Only
an idiot would want to go back and live like that! Especially when you have
a simpler option. Total freedom. What fool wouldn’t embrace death at the
altar of sacrifice?
He could’ve got to kill yourself with that message alone, Fatso.
Neha wondered how long Alok would last if he played Red Shark.
Neha: You’re not entirely correct. Alok walked back from the altar of death
three times. He isn’t a loser. He’s braver now than he ever was before. He
says each attempt got him closer to killing himself. I believe it was the
opposite. Every attempt took him further and further away from the idea of
dying. There is hope in this world. But not for Fatima. You snatched
everything she had.
BFW: I wish curators got bonus points for tolerating players who ramble
on. It’s the small stuff like that which makes leaderboard fights exciting.
Every Red Shark player dies, so all curators get the corresponding game
over points. The battle for the top spot comes down to how well players
scored on individual tasks. I’ll let you in on a secret — I’m taking a big
gamble with you. I couldn’t resist giving you slightly unconventional tasks. I
wanted to test the shocking things Fatima told me about you. I didn’t start
our game with the leaderboard in mind. I don’t care if you die or not. I’ve
earned my right to have fun with you. Nobody’s beating my all-time highest
score thanks to the game I pulled off with Fatima.
Neha: Do I want to know what made it so high-scoring?
BFW: Too bad you asked. The second highest source of points is carving a
perfect Red Shark insignia. Everyone screws that up. But not Fatima — she
was a pro.
Neha: I knew it the moment I saw Fatima’s insignia nobody could do it like
that. It’s impossible.
BFW: See, it all comes down to conviction. Fatima knew death was her
ticket to freedom. What did she lose by dying? Only a futile lifetime of pain.
What did she hope to gain? Your attention. Too bad she didn’t know how
short it would be.
Neha: I don’t see myself carving on my skin. Least of all that damn shark.
How many points do you get for animal cruelty tasks?
BFW: I’ve got something better in mind for you. But it’s contingent on you
failing to carve the Red Shark on yourself.
Neha: What will you do if I don’t cut myself by the tenth day?
BFW: As I said before, the punishment for refusing punishment is far
worse. What I have in mind for you makes my skin crawl! And mind you,
I’ve seen a lot of sick shit.
* * *
It had to be a dream. But then why did it hurt so much? Neha wriggled in
bed, in the hot, humid, pitch-black room. It was hard to tell if it was sweat
or blood underneath her.
Am I cutting myself?
She felt her wrist. It was dry.
Maybe it’s the other one.
Nope. Dry. Except for the sweat. She lost her senses. There was no way to
tell what day it was. How many of Fatima’s final videos was she yet to see?
Have I really cut myself or is this a damn nightmare? Fatima, talk to me if
you’re around!
* * *
Maybe all ten days were over. Maybe it was day four. Her dreams smelled
of whiskey.
BFW: Wake up!
Neha: What day is it?
BFW: You’ll see it when you download the video. How hammered are you?
Don’t you know filenames show what part it is?
Neha downed the last swig of whiskey as she watched the video’s download
progress bar. When she tried to read the filename, she made a stunning
discovery.
Whiskey was the antidote to literacy. Why can’t I read this damn thing?
It was as if somebody forced a monkey to read aloud Shashi Tharoor’s
speech. Without consulting a thesaurus.
* * *
Was I in a coma for months?
BFW: It’s time. Show me the insignia.
The tenth day arrived just like that. It struck like a thunderbolt. Numbed
beyond repair, the jolt still shocked Neha. Maybe it was because it was so
unexpected. The ten days had been so long and unbearable, her mind and
body gave up with the agony of it. She was as good as a vegetable.
It started with a defeatist response on day three. The laboriousness of it
all ceased at day five or so. Whiskey and nightmares made it possible to
cope with this hell. In a world where student suicides could be ordinary,
why couldn’t nightmares be therapy? The devastating effect of Fatima’s
farewell videos would last her a lifetime.
Pain became a part of every living moment. It was normal. Fatima’s
horror became easy to digest. Watching her tears no longer felt bad, it was
just more of the same. Every incremental video segment underscored
depressing reality. The kind of reality Neha began to understand after
wearing Fatima’s shoes. It wouldn’t have been possible if she hadn’t
followed Fatima. Right into the belly of the sinister Red Shark suicide
challenge.
How the hell did I make it to the tenth day?
Neha: Isn’t it still day nine? I haven’t seen the last video.
BFW: I make the demands. Did you make the insignia?
Neha: Show me the video first.
BFW: What kind of joke is this? I am about to give you exactly what you
went through this hell for! This is it! The last part of Fatima’s goodbye
message. It’s all set and ready to go. I just need to see if you’ve made the
insignia on your body.
Neha didn’t reply for a full minute.
BFW: Okay, just say yes or no. Pull up your sleeves and let me see. What’re
you afraid of?
She was afraid. Neha really didn’t know. Maybe she did it sometime during
her drinking marathon. Maybe it was a dream. Was she bleeding? She
positioned her selfie camera such that it was on her sleeves.
Should I pull them up? I think I’ve done it. What if I haven’t?
There were only two possibilities. Both frightened her in extreme ways.
Underneath the full-sleeves of her Mood M hoodie lay the answer. There
was either a bleeding Red Shark insignia or there was nothing. She thought
of the consequences for both cases.
If I’ve not completed the punishment, he’s going to be really pissed. The
punishment for resisting punishment — in his own words — makes his skin
crawl. That can’t be good.
She shuddered. But was it any better if she had carved the Red Shark
and forgotten about it in her drunken stupor?
It’s probably for the best if I’ve carved it. But I’d be really freaked out it
if were true.
Her panic wasn’t misguided. It was already too late.
BFW: You stupid, stupid girl. You didn’t do it, did you? Dammit!
Neha: Now what?
BFW: I needed photographic evidence of your insignia five seconds ago. To
maintain my rank. But we just passed the deadline. You’ve let me down. I’ll
still give you your damn video. You deserve the pain. You cost me first place
in a curator’s mini-tournament. You’re going to pay for it. You’ve cost me a
point too many. I’m going to make up for it with some game over points.
Neha: Game over points? What are you going to do?
BFW: What do you think? You owe me some amusement.
Neha: I won’t kill myself. Forget your game over points. Why don’t you
come here and kill me yourself?
Was this how he did it to you, Fatima?
She took a deep breath.
Neha: Is that why you wanted the insignia on my body? To pass off my
murder as a Red Shark suicide? That’s how you got to Fatima, isn’t it? I
knew it.
BFW: You’re pretty stupid for an IITian. Or your fat roommate’s rubbing off
dumbness. Why would I bother playing with drunk students if I could simply
kill anyone and carve Red Sharks on them? That’s not what this is about.
I’m not a murderer. I’m more of a power coach. I propel my clients to their
ultimate goals in record time. Fifty days, guaranteed.
Neha: Alright, so where are you going to get game over points from?
Without waiting for a reply, Neha rolled up her sleeves. She wanted a
glance. Had she carved Red Shark on her skin? She certainly hadn’t
remembered doing so willingly. Not that it’d be of any help now to escape
punishment.
But at least it would leave no doubt in Neha’s mind whether deep
inside, she wanted to do it. It was imperative to find out. If her drunk
subconscious allowed her to carve Red Shark on her skin, how much further
would it push her?
Is it possible I could kill myself and not know what I was doing?
Would she dance to the lethal tune of the Bad F-ing Wolf?
BFW: I’m going to score game over points by finishing off other players at
IIT. You’re really costing me a lot of points, shit. Thanks to your
interference, I lost two more opportunities to score game over points. I
know you send that guard to catch the two idiots who tried to steal the
damn puppies from Alok’s room. I have to make up a lot of points now.
Good thing I’ve cultivated a handful of players for quite some time. They’re
begging me to give them their freedom.
Neha: Ater all the hype you made about the punishment for refusing
punishments! All you’re going to do is kill IITians and break your promise
to me? I expected something nastier. You disappoint me.
BFW: I do have something nastier in mind. Killing IITians is always a last
resort. I want your punishment to be extreme. But first, let us finish day ten.
I’ll let you enjoy Fatima’s last video — something you’d have rightfully
earned by carving the insignia. You know what, I’m getting really tired of
you not taking my punishments seriously. You flouted punishment for fishing
out the dead puppy. You flouted the punishment itself by not carving the Red
Shark. I won’t let you screw up the third-order punishment, or it’ll get
ridiculous.
Neha: What’re you going to do?
BFW: Tomorrow’s the opening day of IIT’s placements. Really not the kind
of day you want to get me pissed off. If you do, I’ll make good use of those
nice players awaiting freedom. So prepare yourself for the task I’m about to
give you.
Neha: For your own sake, don’t mess with the placement season. The Dean
might just track you down and kill you with his bare hands if you do.
BFW: What’s he going to do when players die right before Google or
Microsoft make their first offers? I can see the headlines already! Haters
will blame the IIT brand for the media-lynching to follow.
Neha: Alright, I get the picture. Send me Fatima’s last video. I’ll await my
punishment.
BFW: Here you go. Watch it. Let’s see if you’ll want to live after that. As
always, I won’t interfere.
Neha downloaded it. Its filename indicated it was part ten of ten. Fatima’s
last video had arrived.
29
Dew Drops
Day 0 of Placements, Mid-February
Neha gulped. In front of her lay the gruesome behind-the-scenes action
starring Fatima. The course of events leading to Neha’s unpleasant morning
at the morgue. With Fatima’s body in a bag. Those cursed letters still
flashed like burning embers in her mind.
AOD NF BFW
BFW stood for Big Fuzzy Wolf. Neha tapped on the play icon as Fatima’s
pixelated face morphed into HD footage. Her voice rang through Neha’s
earphones. A teardrop rolled down Neha’s cheek and blended into the
whiskey around her lips.
“Neha, I’m having double thoughts about whether I want you to see
this. But anyway, even if you do, it’ll be after I’m gone. It won’t matter.
Nothing ever matters, anyway.”
Bloodstains soiled the faded color of Fatima’s denim shorts. Her
phone’s camera had a bloody fingerprint on the top corner. Yet it was clear
to see the Red Shark emblem carved on her right thigh. A bloody letter
opener lay in her lap. Fatima lifted it and went to work in the center of the
bloody carving on her thigh.
“This one is for you, my Angel of Death.”
AOD
“You came to me in the form of Big Fuzzy Wolf.”
BFW
“It was never meant for life, but at least in death, this will unite us,
Neha.”
In the heart of the emblem, she carved.
NF
Even in dying, Fatima put Neha first.
“If only you had paid a fraction of the attention to my life as you will
for my death.”
Blood covered the screen as Fatima’s messy hand reached out to stop
shooting the video on her phone.
The whiskey now tasted of blood. Neha sunk her teeth deeper into her
lower lip.
* * *
Sunlight did more than just to replenish her vitamin D. She felt nice, if only
for a moment. Her ragged Mood M sweatshirt reeking of vomit and
whiskey brought her back to reality. She stuck out like a sore thumb on
campus, sitting alone on the jetty with a bottle. In stark contrast, her
batchmates, all in business formals, scampered for their interviews.
It’s me against the world.
Whiskey-stained loafers versus shiny black shoes.
So far, so good. No signs of Red Shark mischief.
Sometime during the afternoon, the sound of high-fives broke the
tension in the air. Sumit, Arjun, and most of the other StudC members
marched out of the acad block, tossing their coats on the lawn.
That’s what it feels like to nail a dream job.
Day 0 usually saw around ten percent of the batch placed. The forty-odd
folks celebrating Day 0 had forgotten their dead batchmates.
Maybe they don’t cover that in placement prep.
Neha walked past the academic block. She looked at the Dean’s office
from a distance before making her way toward Fatima’s room. BFW had
promised to give her punishment after proving he would do no harm on the
opening day of placements.
The recruitment teams of the day’s biggest tech companies departed.
They took their newest recruits with them for welcome feasts. Reserved
tables in fine dining restaurants downtown awaited the winners. Back on
the IIT campus, however, pressure piled on the majority of the remaining
students. Their focus shifted from elusive Day 0 jobs to the relatively
humble Day 1 opportunities.
By sunset, Neha downed another bottle of whiskey. It was impossible to
tell if it was her third or fourth bottle since morning. The pile of whiskey
bottles grew unusually large in Fatima’s room. Neha knew now that
somewhere under that pile was the letter opener Fatima used to cut her skin.
She wrapped her arms around her, clutching the sleeves of each arm with
the other hand. Neha’s phone beeped.
BFW: Bet you were more nervous about Day 0 than if you were the one
actually giving interviews.
Neha: You kept your promise. But placement season will go on for another
two weeks. I hope you won’t trigger suicides midway.
BFW: I won’t have to if you accept your punishment. You’ve earned it for
not producing the Red Shark insignia when I most needed it.
Neha: Hit me.
She took a mighty gulp of whiskey.
BFW: I’ve been thinking. The only way to make amends is by apologizing
to Fatima. You were rather unkind the last time you met her. In the morgue.
Neha: What?
BFW: You didn’t go to the morgue to see her! You didn’t even look at her
face.
Neha: I admit it. I couldn’t bear to look.
BFW: Couldn’t bear or didn’t care? You were there only to confirm she
played Red Shark! You weren’t there for her, you were there for you!
Neha: There’s no point arguing. What do you want me to do?
BFW: Fatima wished to be buried in Mumbai. As close to IIT as possible.
She had jokingly told her sister her seemingly strange wish. A month before
killing herself. Only after she died did her sister realize it was never meant
to be a joke. I want you to go to the graveyard. I’m sending you the
location.
Neha: What do you want me to do?
BFW: Go there later tonight. Make your peace with Fatima. Tell her why
you’re there. Give her all the truth. Explain how and why you didn’t do any
of this for her. You played Red Shark to satisfy your ego. You wanted to
prove the game couldn’t kill you. You wanted to prove again you’re better
than Fatima.
Neha: You want me to stand by her grave and say all this?
BFW: How would that be a third-order punishment? Would it make your
skin crawl? Not a chance. Dig her out and beg for forgiveness.
Neha: Please, no. This is going too far.
BFW: You’ll find a shovel behind her tombstone. I want you to get digging
and do this face to face!
Neha: I won’t do that. Please. Here, I’ve sent you a photograph of my
insignia. I had carved it.
BFW: It’s too late for that. Oh well, may still be worth a look.
Neha held her breath as the curator downloaded her image.
Neha: There you go. I’m won’t dig Fatima out of her grave. That’s just sick,
even by your standards.
BFW: I said it was too late. If you don’t do it, recruiting companies campus
tomorrow will watch students jump off the terrace. They’ll watch blood and
bones on the academic block’s foyer. If I were you, I’d stop eating in the
hostel cafeterias. No telling who might crush tube lights into a fine powder.
Anybody can sneak around cafeteria kitchens with a handful at night.
* * *
A cold night in the middle of February was a strange time for rain. But it
was no stranger than what Neha was here to do.
The non-rusted parts of the shovel’s metallic head shone under the
moonlight. As promised, it was right behind Fatima’s tombstone. Neha
looked around before lifting it off the muddy soil. A bolt of lightning
illuminated the graveyard for a split second. In that brief moment, Neha
saw hundreds of tombstones. They lined up and extended far beyond what
she could see.
What do dreams, ambitions, and aspirations of the dead matter? Are
you paying for your crimes in hell? How many of you made it to heaven? Is
it worth it after a lifetime of shortlived joys and permanent misery? Where’s
your legacy now? Most of you were employee numbers all your lives and
are tombstones now for eternity.
That day in the morgue was preferable to this any day of the week. At
least that old caretaker had zipped open Fatima’s bodybag. Digging out a
grave and bursting its lid open was a different ballgame.
The rain washed down tears and sweat. Knee deep in the hole she had
made, Neha scooped out rainwater with a wooden bucket. A bucket she had
conveniently found beside the shovel.
How did the monster know it would rain?
She dug on. The rain battered her back when she shoveled and her head
when she stopped to catch her breath.
At one point the shovel made a scraping sound on wood. The coffin
would soon be unearthed.
What am I going to say to her? Will I be able to look at her face?
Neha looked at the pitch-black sky and opened her mouth to drink
rainwater. The first few gulps were diluted whiskey.
Will my mouth smell like this forever?
Before she knew it, she stood beside the unearthed coffin. A few
whacks of the shovel did the trick.
Oh my god, Fatima.
The lid creaked distinctly amidst the drumming rain. Neha fell to her
knees in the muddy slush all around the coffin. Without a second thought,
she reached in and put her hands at what she figured were Fatima’s armpits.
With a mighty heave, Fatima’s corpse slid up until the back of its head was
resting on the inner edge of the coffin’s head.
Neha closed her teary eyes and hugged her best friend’s decomposing
body. Not a word came out of her mouth. It didn’t matter what BFW had
asked her to do. It didn’t matter if he would be upset with what Neha did or
didn’t do anymore. This is what he had done to Fatima. It was beyond her
to bring Fatima back no matter what she tried.
Tears flowed down her face, no more washed by the rain. Dark clouds
cleared above, exposing the purple sky. The brief yet intense shower of rain
had stopped as abruptly as it had started. The patter of droplets in puddles
shrank into a murmur. Soon, weak cries of nocturnal insects resumed as the
bugs crept out of their shelters.
Neha stared at Fatima’s wrinkled lips. Her skin clung to her jawbones,
giving her the appearance of an aged lady. Unlike the time at the morgue,
when Neha rushed to inspect Fatima’s insignia, now she was content to just
be there. She needed nothing more. Down in the ditch she had dug, hugging
her rotting friend’s remains tighter and tighter.
I’m here only for you, Fatima. Forgive me. I wronged you even after
you died. But this time, it isn’t about me. It’s all about you. That insignia
doesn’t define you. You are much more than that.
A lightning bolt lit up Fatima’s shriveled face. For once, the limelight
was on her. But irony had a cruel move in store for them even now. A
harsher, much brighter beam of light fell on Neha’s eyes, blinding her. Yet
she didn’t shield her eyes. They continued to pull Fatima close.
The siren of a police van cleared any doubt as to the source of the light.
With a hand finally tilted over her brows to see, she recognized the two men
approaching her.
“Neha, step back from the body and put your hands up. Are you
armed?” Inspector Kamal’s voice echoed in the graveyard.
Neha obliged. She locked eyes with the other gentleman who cleared
his throat.
“When you became the StudC President,” Dean Shekhar said. “I
imagined you’d be one of the first few to get placed. But here we at the end
of Day 0, with you in last place I would have imagined.”
* * *
The drive to the police station was remarkably quiet. With one wrist
handcuffed to a metallic bar behind the driver’s seat, Neha sat in silence.
Given the early morning hour, there were no other vehicles on the highway.
There was little to do to. The Dean sat in the passenger’s seat beside
Inspector Kamal, who drove well beyond the speed limit. From time to
time, Neha looked in the rearview mirror. Every time, she caught glimpses
of the worried looks on the Dean’s and the Inspector’s faces.
Neha twisted her leg till her phone popped out of her pocket and fell on
her side. Using her free hand, she unlocked it. These were the only precious
few minutes she had before they confiscated her phone.
What can they charge me for? Desecration of a grave? If Fatima’s sister
finds out, I’m dead meat. I wonder if the Dean knows about my adventure at
the morgue?
Random thoughts pounded her head. Not the ideal situation to chat with
BFW. But then again, nothing remotely ideal would involve texting this
monster.
Neha: I did it.
BFW: I know. I wouldn’t miss it for the world. Must have been a hell of an
experience.
Neha: How did you spy on me? My phone was inside my pocket the whole
time.
BFW: I watched you in person.
Neha’s heart shuddered. Was BFW someone she knew?
Neha: I’m probably going to be locked up for a while. Can you remotely
wipe my phone before the police seize it?
BFW: Already in progress. We’re at the end of our game anyway!
Neha: How can the game end if I’m still alive?
BFW: You’re dead inside. Now, you’re just a skeleton wearing a meat suit.
There’s no trace of a soul inside you! You reek of death. How long will your
body live on anyway? Your mind won’t let it. Not after realizing what you
did to Fatima.
Neha: So, this is the last time we speak?
BFW: Pretty much. It’s been a little over fifty days since our game started
in December. I promised I wouldn’t kill you. The real question is, will you
want to live with yourself anymore? After knowing what you did to Fatima?
Neha: I won’t kill myself.
BFW: We’ll see!
Neha: I’ll outlast your sock puppet account anyway. Shoudn’t you have
deleted it after Fatima’s game?
BFW: Very knowledgeable about Red Shark, are we? You’d have made a
great curator. You’re a natural at making others want to kill themselves!
Anyway, we won’t be in touch anymore.
Neha: Why did you reach out to me with the same account you used with
Fatima?
BFW: It was too tempting. This is the first sock puppet account I’ve used
for multiple games. Fatima and your special relationship deserved a
semblance of unity. At least in death.
Neha: I still see no reason to kill myself. You’re wrong. I won’t do it.
BFW: I am confident you’ll kill yourself. Want to bet on it?
Neha: By all means. If I don’t kill myself, promise me you will never play
Red Shark at IIT again.
BFW: We have a deal — you’re a dead girl walking. An apt username that
one — what had you picked? Ah, yes. Dead Riding Hood!
Neha: I should be at the police station soon. They’ll take my phone any
minute now.
BFW: Scroll our chat up as far as you can go. The older messages are
disappearing as we speak. Every multimedia file we’ve shared is being
erased from your device. Including screenshots, if you’ve been naive
enough to take any from this chat. See if you can access Fatima’s last video
now. It’s gone!
Neha knew better than to think he was bluffing. She didn’t bother to check
her device’s storage.
Neha: For what it’s worth, I want to thank you.
BFW: What?
Neha: I was blinded when Fatima died. I had to blame someone else for it.
So much so, even Fatima’s absence became less important. You made me
realize how wrong I was about Fatima the whole time. She deserved a much
better friend.
BFW: I am glad you see it now. That was the whole point of our game.
Neha: How could I have been so selfish? The first chance I got with
Fatima’s body alone in the morgue, I shamelessly searched for the Red
Shark insignia. I didn’t even look at her face.
BFW: But today you were a different person. A person who’d walked fifty
days in Fatima’s shoes. You finally understood her pain. I saw how all you
did was hug her rotten body and not once glance at her insignia.
Neha: For that, and that alone, I want to thank you.
BFW has left the chat
Just like that, the chat window collapsed. It wouldn’t reopen no matter how
many times Neha tried. She understood it was over.
She had seen it before, but the sheer speed of the remote wipe still
amazed her. The virus cleaned her phone of all evidence and it was as good
as new. It was like none of this happened in the last fifty days. Neha
searched for Big Fuzzy Wolf on Facebook. The account no longer existed.
She went through her chats. There was no evidence she had ever chatted
with such a person. Even her calendar and clock apps retuned to her home
screen. Her phone was as good as new. Just in time as Inspector Kamal
brought the vehicle to a screeching halt.
He unfastened his seat belt and turned around with an outstretched
palm. “I need to take your phone as evidence.”
“Knock yourself out.” Neha handed over her phone, with mud from
Fatima’s grave all over it.
30
Nobody Else
Late February
Being locked up in jail wasn’t so bad. In fact, two weeks without whiskey
and her phone had done an awful lot of good. Having nothing to do with
BFW meant no more tasks and no more videos.
Before ending up in her cell, Neha had the option to make a phone call.
She longed to speak to her parents now that the game was over. She dialed
their overseas number.
You didn’t even have parents, Fatima. The least I can do is refuse my
call.
She placed the receiver of the ancient telephone back in its rack. Neha
shrugged in response to Inspector Kamal’s quizzical expression. Despite his
insistence, she refused her right to make a call. Inspector Kamal had handed
her over to a female cop for processing soon after.
She hadn’t asked if she was eligible for bail. Nor did she care when she
would be produced in court. Why would she? The two weeks of silence and
a clockwork routine did wonders to calm her nerves.
On a gloomy Sunday morning, she awoke to the prodding baton of a
female guard upon her shin. Her cell was open and the guard stood beside
her bed, peering down at her. “You have a visitor.”
* * *
“I never thought I’d say it to anyone in jail, but you look so much better!”
Alok’s warmth oozed until it was uncomfortable. His stomach bulged
against the dazzling white fabric of a brand new shirt.
I’ve missed this useless lump. Has he ever looked so good before?
Maybe it’s his formal attire. Anything’s an upgrade over his stinky t-shirts.
Neha gave him a warm smile. “Detox does miracles. But seriously, I
needed this time away from Fatima’s room. If the whiskey didn’t drown me,
the empty bottles would have buried me.”
“It’s not detoxing if you keep thinking of whiskey. Food’s a great
distraction. Don’t you miss the night canteen’s chicken sandwiches?” Alok
stole a peek behind to check if the female cop was watching them. “I
figured you would. Take this.” He slipped her a chicken sandwich, partially
wrapped in silver foil. He’d picked it up for Neha from the night canteen
early in the morning. “To be fair, I’m sure the gruel they must be serving
can’t possibly be worse than H6’s food.”
Neha giggled. “I’m sure.”
“How are you holding up?” Alok asked. “I hear the Dean’s been trying
to get you out on bail for days now.”
“Really? That’s quite unlike him.” Neha tugged her loose shirt’s sleeve
down past the wrist of her arm. The shirt belonged to the previous occupant
of Neha’s jail cell.
She must have been a cow. I could fit three of me in this shirt with room
to spare.
“Oh, come on,” Alok scoffed. “He knows what role you played to
ensure IIT’s successful placements. By the way, I got placed in Microsoft!
I’m joining their R&D team at the headquarters in Redmond.”
“Good for you,” Neha said. “Too bad for IIT, I denied them the perfect
one hundred percent placement record for our batch. Well, so did Fatima,
Akriti, and Madhukar—”
“Neha, stop. It’s over. You’re getting into some serious trouble because
of your obsession with Red Shark. See where it’s landed you? Inspector
Kamal told me what you were doing at Fatima’s grave.”
“You know about that and still believe it’s over?”
“What do you mean?” Alok’s eyes widened. “Are you still playing Red
Shark?”
“Technically, no. But I don’t care. If nothing else, Red Shark gave me
closure.”
“Yes, it must have been terrifying to dig Fatima’s grave like that.” Alok
shook his head. He clicked his tongue at the thought of her ordeal. “But it’s
okay. In the end, all that matters is you said your goodbye in the right way.
You went to the grave for her. You didn’t care what she carved on her right
thigh, nor what you did to your own arm.”
“How do you know about that?” Neha raised her brows.
“Ever since I got here, you’ve been pulling down your sleeves all the
way to your wrists. Compulsively. It’s not even subconscious. You’re hiding
your arm behind your back for a reason. Unless you’ve got an embarrassing
prison gang tattoo, it’s not difficult to guess what you’re concealing.”
A female guard gestured to Alok his time was up. He shook Neha’s
hand and said with a warm smile, “The Dean will get you out. Just hang in
there.”
Neha watched as he lumbered his way out, his shiny black shoes cleaner
than the jail’s floors on scrubbing day.
Was it that obvious I was hiding my arm? Anyway, that’s not what I
asked you, you big fat wanker. How on earth did you know I didn’t look at
Fatima’s insignia this time? Shit. I never told you it was on her right thigh.
Only Inspector Kamal and the Dean knew. There’s no chance in hell they
told you about it.
Then it hit her like a brick wall.
Alok, you big fat wanker. You’re the Bad F-ing Wolf!
31
Let Go
Mid-March
Two further weeks of solitude later, Neha had another visitor.
“Neha, I’m so sorry,” Dean Shekhar joined his hands and interlocked
his fingers. “Your release papers are being signed as we speak. I’m taking
you back to IIT. I heard that you refused to speak to your parents. They’re
so worried about you.”
“When did they hear I am in jail?”
“Last night.” Dean Shekhar wiped his brow.
Neha cocked her head. “Is that why you are here?”
The Dean swallowed. “I meant to get you out sooner.”
“You mean, something like a month ago?” Neha heard her own voice
after what seemed like ages. She sounded like a stranger.
The Dean touched his chest in all earnestness. “I have been trying to get
you out from the very night Inspector Kamal arrested you.”
“You were with him during my arrest.”
The Dean had no retort.
Neha smiled. “Anyway, it means Alok was right. You really did apply
for my bail.”
“When did he tell you that?”
“Two weeks ago. When he paid me a visit.”
Dean Shekhar loosened his collar. “Does he know how you got here?”
“He thinks Inspector Kamal arrested me for damaging Fatima’s grave.”
The Dean furrowed his brows. “That’s technically true. Did you tell him
I was with Inspector Kamal at the graveyard?”
“No,” Neha assured. “He doesn’t know you put me in here. Why else
would he insist that I should trust you to get me out?”
“He wasn’t wrong.” The Dean meant it.
“Then what took you so long?” Neha crossed her arms. “It’s been four
weeks dammit. I bet it took you a lot less time to produce my arrest
warrant.”
The Dean had no answer. Neha sighed.
Should I tell him about Alok? Better to soften him up first.
Neha smiled. “Oh, well. You or Prof. Reema didn’t care, but at least I
had Alok. It felt nice to know somebody on campus cared where I was.”
Does blue-collar life mean Alok won’t curate Red Shark games
anymore? Regardless, he needs to pay for what he did to Fatima.
Dean Shekhar cleared his throat. “Neha, I’m terribly sorry for
everything you went through. Right from losing your best friend to ending
up in prison, charged for desecrating her body. As soon as your release
papers are ready, I’ll drive you down to IIT. We’ll take a long cut. I need to
talk with you about a few things.”
Neha nodded.
I hope you also think it’s Alok. Better still, I hope you have some
evidence to nail this big fat wanker.
* * *
“Four weeks is a lot of time to spend alone,” Dean Shekhar said. “Must
have been awful.”
Neha fastened her seatbelt in the passenger seat. The Dean slammed his
foot on the accelerator. They were alone in the car. It was his personal
sedan.
What happened to his police van?
The vehicle zoomed toward the highway.
Dean Shekhar said, “Don’t think I kept you in there a moment longer
than I could have helped. I apologize once again for the four weeks.”
“I’m sure it was worth it.” Neha stared out the window with vacant
eyes. “Without me to distract you, Alok to me how smoothly the
placements got wrapped up. Good for him. Got into Microsoft.
Cybersecurity.” Trees and pedestrians disappeared in a haze. Each blurred
face had a full, individual story. Each was the protagonist of their own tale.
Each under the illusion of being the center of the universe. Each as useless
as all before and all yet to be born.
“Neha, Prof. Reema spoke to me about this. I think she’s right.”
“What did she say?”
“You had something to do with the halting of Red Shark deaths on
campus.”
“What do you mean?”
“Don’t think for a moment you’ve fooled me. I know about your
alcoholism and irregular meals. Who can forget your dive into the lake?
Strange behavior for easily the most committed StudC President in IIT’s
history. What could explain your complete apathy toward the student body?
Exactly after Fatima died? You didn’t help the placement office one bit.
You didn’t help anyone prepare for their interviews. Zero involvement.”
“Why do you think I did any of it?” Neha pulled down her sleeves over
her wrists.
“You tossed aside acads, your StudC responsibilities, refused to speak to
your parents, you simply lost your mind. Right after insisting Fatima died
because of Red Shark.”
“So?”
“It can only mean you had something to do with its slowdown within
IIT.”
“How would I have done that?”
“Prof. Reema says you might have struck some kind of deal with the
game’s admins. Nothing else can explain it.”
“This sounds it could use someone with some cybersecurity expertise.
Why don’t you take Alok’s help to figure out whether IIT is free of Red
Shark for good or not?”
“Ah, is that why you moved in with him! Microsoft may have proven
Alok is bright today, but you knew it all along.”
Neha smiled politely, suppressing a curse.
Does it even matter if I tell the Dean that Alok is IIT’s Red Shark
admin?
“Anyway, Neha,” the Dean said. “Forget the placements, you can look
for something offline. I’ll help you with a couple of recommendations and
referrals. But none of it will matter if you don’t clear your final semester
exams.”
“Okay.”
“Do you even know when they begin?”
“Not a clue.” Neha stared at the empty road whizzing away under the
sedan’s tires.
“You have two weeks until the first exam. Prof. Reema told me she has
set a mean question paper on hydraulics. I suggest you let go of everything
else. It’s over. Study hard and give it all you’ve got. Seriously, just get your
damn degree. Isn’t that why you came to IIT four years ago?”
32
Battle-Scarred
Late March
Being sober for another two weeks had its merits. Neha’s head didn’t throb
all the time anymore. The upcoming week would tell just how well she was
prepared for the finals.
Do I need a degree for what I’m going to do?
Neha sat through each of the final semester examinations, lost in
thought. She returned in a daze every time. Unable to recollect what
questions she read or what she wrote in her answers, a long wait was on the
cards until the scorecards came out.
The bell rang, signaling the end of the last paper. Prof. Badami was the
invigilator in Neha’s classroom. Neha put away her pen and handed in her
answer script.
“How did you find the last question on hydraulics?” Prof. Badami
whispered, leaning on Neha’s desk.
“It was okay.” In truth, she didn’t have a clue.
“Ah, it was a trick question. I might have to give everyone grace marks
for it anyway.” Prof. Badami kept her voice low. “Coffee?”
“Why not?” Neha gave a vacant stare at Prof. Badami’s concerned eyes.
They looked magnified through the lenses of her thick-rimmed glasses.
* * *
It was hotter than it should have been for a March noon. Prof. Badami led
the way and Neha followed close behind, looking only at the ground.
The professor turned. “Feels like we’re in the middle of summer! Good
thing the acad block cafeteria serves killer ice tea.”
Neha walked in. Only one table was occupied in the far right corner.
They walked toward it. The silver hair was unmistakable.
“I thought I should join you, ladies.” Dean Shekhar stood to greet them.
“I bet you studied real hard for the finals.” He offered Neha a seat.
“Neha, tell us the truth.” Prof. Badami squeezed Neha’s hand between
her palms.
“How did you do it?” Dean Shekhar laid out his bare hands the table in
a gesture of defeat.
“Do what?” Neha buried her face in her folded arms resting on the
table.
“Did you play the Red Shark game?” They asked together.
Since how long did they know?
“Does it matter now?”
“More than ever before.”
“Really? With placements and end sems wrapped up, do we still care if
anyone’s in danger?” Neha pulled up her sleeves and presented her bare
arms. “Yes. I played Red Shark. Long enough to keep the admin from
playing with anyone else at IIT.”
The Dean’s jaw dropped. Prof. Badami looked away and coughed.
“What’re you looking at? I played the suicide game and I won.” Neha
pulled down her sleeves, concealing her insignia much to the Dean’s instant
relief.
His eyes widened in a moment. “The insignia! It’s pretty much always
the final task — are you going to kill yourself?” The Dean’s face was a
deathly shade of white.
“I told you. I won.” Neha inspected her nails and blew air on them. She
shined them on her coat’s outer lining.
“Another thing, your parents are flying back to India,” Prof. Badami
said. “We informed them about your arrest at Fatima’s grave.”
“That was a month ago. They’re flying to India now?”
“I didn’t say we informed them right after you were arrested.” The Dean
smiled. “Your parents knew nothing of it the whole time. They knew no
more than what the media told the general public. Of course, there are a few
things only you can tell them as soon as you’re home.”
“We’ll see,” Neha smiled. “I’ll take a couple of days to pack.”
“We’ll have the guards pack and courier your things later this week.”
Dean Shekhar looked into his watch. “Your flight ticket to Agra should be
in your inbox by now. You’re flying out tonight.”
33
Who This?
Early April
Two days later, childhood memories of summers in Agra came to life. Yet
Neha’s old bedroom felt like a strange prison. Sorely missing IIT, she
looked at the boxes the packers had delivered earlier today. The receipt with
IIT’s address welled her eyes. The last of her ties to IIT lay in the cardboard
boxes around her.
“Drink this.” Her mother’s voice was as warm as the coffee she offered.
“We flew down as soon as we heard you got involved with the police.”
“The police frighten you more than the game,” Neha said it more to
herself than to her mother. “It’s part of the problem.”
Her mother frowned. “You don’t realize what a bad police record can do
for visa applications or loans. Don’t throw away employment opportunities
because of a blip on your record. Anyway, we knew never feared Red Shark
ever becoming a risk for you. Your father assured me IIT was safe — in
fact, the only major campus in India to tackle the Red Shark menace. Your
father stayed in touch with the Dean on a weekly basis ever since Fatima
—”
“Ever since December.” Neha helped her mother finish. “But still,
weren’t you in the tiniest bit afraid I might play the game?”
“Of course not,” Neha’s mother said. “You’re stronger than Fatima ever
was.”
It wasn’t your fault, Fatima. And no, I’m not trying to be better than
you. Mother’s wrong.
Neha grit her teeth, trying hard not to make noise. “I don’t know,
Mom.”
Her mother said, “Well, you’re here, safe and sound at home. Dad
should be back soon.”
Her father was yet to see Neha since returning from the United States.
While her mother and Neha flew directly to Agra, her father had made a
pitstop at Mumbai to meet his bank’s clients.
You used to be my pillars. Now, a business meeting is more important
than your daughter. Silly me, the day I moved out to study at IIT I still
believed you’re going to be there for me, forever. I still can’t imagine what
Fatima went through after her parents passed away. Even Red Shark could
only give me a small dose of what it felt like to be in her shoes.
“Can’t wait to meet him, Mom.” Neha lied. She would have gladly
waited. Unlike her father’s clients.
Self-imposed social isolation as part of playing Red Shark had left deep
mental scars. The emotional pain and psychological effects were only
getting worse with time. With every hour, pretending to be bubbly and
cheerful got suffocating. Neha thought about confessing to her mother
about her Red Shark experience.
Does it matter if I tell her? Damn, BFW. You were a monster. But
whatever you said wasn’t entirely wrong. What does all of this matter,
anyway?
It was insidious. She was beginning to think like a curator. Experiencing
what was in Fatima’s mind during her last days was nerve-wracking. The
fatalistic mindset was difficult to overcome. Many times in those dark
moments, alone in her room, Neha wished for a bottle of whiskey. She
would have sold her soul for it.
34
Permanent Roommate
Early April
Within two weeks, she learned how lonely it felt even when surrounded by
loved ones. Her father felt like a stranger. Her mother’s concern, though
genuine, seemed so hollow.
What is wrong with me?
It was horrifying. She hoped the solitude of her bedroom late at night
would bring peace. But she had a roommate. A permanent roommate in her
head. She didn’t need a phone anymore. BFW’s text now played in Alok’s
voice inside her head. Fatima’s screams provided the only background
sound. It was her personal theatre of nightmares. There was no task she
could do to make this stop. The game was over. Fifty days. No more of that
— and she’d signed up for only that. But here she was on the other side of
the Red Shark game. Was there a time limit for this part of the post-game?
When the game was on her phone’s messenger, she could always put her
phone away. She could close her eyes. She could drink to forget her grief
and numb her body.
But now, the game went on inside her head.
BFW: Ever wondered why Fatima was so cheerful days before killed
herself?
Neha: Because she knew she wouldn’t have to deal with you after she died.
BFW: Do you think it worked?
Neha: I hope it did, for her sake.
BFW: Do you wonder what was in her mind moments before she jumped
off?
Neha: Fear. But she knew it would be over in less than a minute after she
jumped.
BFW: It was the happiest moment of her life. She was about to set herself
free. Unlike you. You’re trapped. You’ll always be trapped. Unless…
* * *
“Congratulations, dear!” Her father had never been as proud of her before.
Not even four years ago, on the day Neha got her IIT admission letter. He
walked into the living room with a torn envelope. His other hand held a
laminated invitation letter. The IIT logo stood out, printed in bold at the top
corner.
“What happened?” Neha’s mother looked up from her weekly fashion
magazine.
“Formal invitation for Neha’s convocation! Our daughter’s officially a
mechanical engineer. It says the email with mark sheet and RSVP was sent
out a week ago. Why didn’t you tell us, Neha?”
“Oh, I must have missed the email. Haven’t checked after coming
home.” Neha pulled out her phone. She hadn’t even bothered to install the
email app. The calendar and clock icons on the screen looked redundant.
“Wow.” Her father adjusted his glasses. “They’re going to live stream
the event for friends and relatives overseas. A post-event recording will be
up a day later. Let’s book our tickets, we’re all attending in person.”
“Neha, you don’t look excited.” Her mother put down her magazine.
“I can’t wait for it.”
So much hype for the convocation. What a meaningless event. Yet
another shift of origin for the final year students. Well, it means something
for the masses. A great place to show them what I really think about all of
this. I’ll see you soon, Fatima.
BFW: Thinking of outgoing Fatima again?
Neha: Even if I outdo her, it’ll be for the last time. I’m sure Fatima would
understand. She did it at the Mood M inauguration in front of a hundred
and fifty thousand visitors. I’m going to do it during the convocation live
stream, for millions to watch worldwide.
35
Going Live
Convocation, April 11th
The blue overtones of the convocation’s setup were apt considering how
Neha felt. The navy blue convocation gowns and headgear added to the
effect. The large shamiana outside IIT’s auditorium was packed to capacity.
Sparkling white fabric draped around wooden rods. Endless bamboo sticks
attached with jute ropes formed partitions. The convocation arena was
booming with nervous excitement.
IIT was one of the rare institutes to conduct a full-fledged convocation
that year. In solidarity with other institutes still reeling from Red Shark, the
event was low key. By IIT’s standards, anyway. Neha had something else in
mind.
Rather, someone caught her attention. For a change, it was not Fatima
this time. The big fat wanker marched in. He scratches his stubble as he
carefully selected his seat in the front row. The fluttering blue gown did
little to hide his bulk. Alok must have doubled his size in the past few
weeks.
The Dean adjusted his microphone. He took his spot at the center of the
stage. The flurry of the stage crew, audio technicians, and the lighting squad
intensified. The equipment checks came to a close. Dean Shekhar stretched
his limbs and cleared his throat as he readied himself for the event. Eerily
like the opening day of Mood Magenta.
But this time, the Dean stood under overhead coverings. Thoughtfully
designed into the shamiana’s wooden skeleton, there was no risk of
someone crashing into the stage from above. Right next to the Dean’s feet.
It wouldn’t matter. That wasn’t Neha’s preferred method anyway. She felt
the poison pills in her pocket.
“Am I audible?” Dean Shekhar’s voice boomed in the arena. “How
much time until we go live?”
“Another ten minutes,” a voice cried from the prompter’s pit.
“Perfect.” The Dean waited until his voice reverberated on the array of
speakers. They spread over one hundred meters. ” Before we start the live
stream, I’d like to once again welcome each of my students and their proud
parents. You have every reason to be proud. Yet, allow me — only for a
moment — to draw your attention to the fact that the unfortunate wave of
Red Shark lingers on. We defeated it IIT, no doubt, but not before losing
some of our own. We deeply mourn their loss even now. They should have
been here with us to receive their degrees today. We have decided to give
out honorary degrees in their memory. Their families were invited for this
special day. I’m happy to say, most of them accepted our invite and are
seated among us. With that, the time has come to put Red Shark behind us.
For our own sakes, we must forget the pain and remember the lessons.”
Neha looked on restlessly. The Dean spoke flawlessly. It looked like he
actually meant it.
Maybe this time he does.
“A beacon of hope shines brightest on the darkest of nights.” The Dean
paused for a sip of water. “We have amongst us a genuine role model. He’s
a remarkable product of IIT. Well, he did spend a longer time at IIT than
most alumni!” The Dean chuckled, with a good-humored wink at Alok on
the front row. Alok returned the faintest trace of a smile. The Dean looked
into the ultra-HD lens of the camera pointed at his face from a tripod thirty
feet away. “You’ve made IIT proud, Alok Das.”
You have no idea how wrong you are! Oh well, you’re about to find out
soon enough.
The Dean went on about Alok’s remarkable turnaround. From three
failed suicide attempts to being the only campus Microsoft hired. That too
for their cybersecurity R&D team in Redmond.
Yet he couldn’t decrypt IIT’s local network. Let’s see if I can do a better
job. After all, I’m not tearing down our network. I’m just going to make
sure the show goes on even if I don’t.
With a few minutes to go before the event went online, Neha said
goodbye to her parents, seated amongst the rest. Neha darted toward the
final year students’ seating area. Arranged alphabetically, they waited like
robots, eager for their commands to go on the stage.
Neha walked past the front row. She looked at her watch, then doubled
her pace to go backstage. The IT team had a bunker-like station set up
behind the stage. For the live stream to happen successfully, this little
fortress would have to work like clockwork. There were people and
equipment to cover every emergency. Armed with backups for cameras,
audio, power supply, internet connectivity, and software, the geeky squad
comprised Neha’s juniors and hired professionals. She produced a pen drive
and gave it to one of the juniors. He placed it deep inside his hip pocket. He
patted it to be sure it was all the secure.
“You know the cue. This is a surprise for everyone, and we got only one
chance to do it,” Neha said. “You’ll make this happen, right?”
The junior nodded. Neha thanked him and left the area.
There’s no way anything will interrupt the live stream. How long will
they take to react after I do my thing? Would they just cut these wires? Or
unplug all recording equipment?
The question wasn’t how the Dean and the others would react when
Neha began doing what she planned. It was about how long they would take
to pull down the live stream.
Fatima, your actions shocked a hundred and fifty thousand visitors. I
will impact millions watching around the world. Sorry, Fatima. I have to
outdo you. One last time.
Neha walked back toward the seating area. On the stage, a stagehand
screamed into the microphone “Everyone in their spots!”
The Dean’s voice boomed into his microphone. “All set? Okay, we’re
going live in ten… nine… eight…”
Neha rushed back to her seat just in time.
36
The Limelight
Convocation, April 11th
One by one, the graduating students went on stage. They shook hands with
the Dean and posed for photographs before walking off. Dean Shekhar had
the warmest smile on his face when he handed Neha her degree. She smiled
back.
I’ll be back soon, sir. We need a better photo.
Neha walked off the stage and went to her parents. They couldn’t wait
to touch her laminated degree. Even the premium leather case it was nestled
inside felt so good.
“Once again, I congratulate our outgoing students.” The Dean’s chest
puffed with pride. He showed no signs of fatigue despite handing stood for
hours. “I know each of you will make the world a better place.”
We won’t. Certainly not Alok. While the rest of us will chase shifting
goalposts.
The Dean looked at Alok. “I’d like to call upon a special speaker to
address the outgoing students today. Alok, can I request you to come over?”
You rehearsed this last night, Alok. Mighty nice acting there, pretending
to be surprised.
Alok cleared his throat on his way to the stage. The dais wobbled and
the woodwork creaked under his feet. The Dean stepped back a few paces.
“Thank you, Dean Shekhar, and thank you IIT. You gave me a chance to
live my dreams. I look forward to donning a bigger mantle to fight for the
cause of cybersecurity. Professor Surendar will miss me, no doubt.” He
waved at his mentor seated in the front row. “I will make it up to some
extent by inviting him as an expert consultant on some of Microsoft’s
biggest projects. I’m sure Prof. Surendar’s list of patents is going to grow
quite remarkably. It’s a pertinent field to focus on, no doubt. Cybersecurity
experts around the world are yet to uproot menaces like Red Shark. The
deviousness of the game lies in its simplicity. Not to say sophisticated
techniques like steganography are irrelevant. I hope to tackle these elements
that allow someone to hide behind the internet’s dark curtain. How dare
these sadistic criminals target innocent students all over the world? Their
numbers are growing. Despite the sophisticated viruses, malware, and
encrypted content of the game, it’s frighteningly easy to onboard curators.
Anyone with elementary computer skills will do. All you need is a bunch of
sock puppet accounts. Add to that the adaptability to navigate social media
ecosystems. If a platform catches too much heat, evolve and move on.”
Damn you, Alok. You’re luring potential curators. You never miss a
chance, do you?
Alok’s lips trembled with passion. Only Neha saw through the
hollowness of his words. He spoke with conviction and the vigor to back it.
“Several anonymous messenger applications pop up every single day. Do
you see how easy it is to create the next Red Shark? I will change that by
dismantling the technological backbone of such horrific challenges. I will
unmask the sick creators of Red Shark. How long will they march on in
anonymity?”
Good question. How long will you last, Alok?
“Let me be honest — I’m not the brightest student this institute has ever
produced. Not even close. But Prof. Surendar’s guidance and our Dean’s
encouragement transformed me.” Neha watched Alok turn around to flash
an unkind, sarcastic glance at the Dean. “From three unsuccessful suicide
attempts and breaking IIT’s backlog records, I’ve come a long way. But
there is still so much more I have to do.”
Neha gulped.
You’re going to make an even deadlier game.
“For all the support I got from the administration, it’d be unfair to leave
out a very special student. Someone who was just as fervently concerned
for me. And not just me, but the entire student body. Despite losing her best
friend to the first Red Shark casualty in India. She knew Fatima died
playing Red Shark long before anyone else did. Maybe it was a
premonition. Despite police orders to stay away, she poked her nose to
ensure our safety. She was a buddy to us all. I was the lucky one to have her
formally assigned to me. Very few saw what she went through. I got the
opportunity to observe her commitment to keeping IIT safe from the Red
Shark menace. It would be unfair to conduct this convocation, without a
word from the one student who made it possible. May I request Neha
Sharma to please join me on stage and say a few words?”
You want me to do it on stage. We’re on the same page, then.
Neha walked past Prof. Badami who stood near the bottom of the
staircase leading up to the stage. She checked her pocket one last time to
ensure the poison pills were in place.
“Please be quick — we’re running behind schedule.” Prof. Reema
whispered.
Neha smiled and nodded.
We’re only getting started, ma’am, sit tight.
Thunderous applause rang throughout the shamiana as Neha ascended
to the stage. Ironic, considering how they ignored her not too long ago.
Maybe they were amazed she cleared her final semesters.
Alok stepped off the dais. He walked back a few paces and stood next to
the Dean. Neha flashed them both a warm smile before turning to face the
thousands applauding her. She took her time gazing into each of the three
cameras pointed at her from different angles.
How many extra pounds do three cameras add?
Neha smiled. The cold head of the microphone felt good in her cupped
palms. She turned to Alok and whispered, “Is the mic on?”
He gave her a thumbs up and she thanked him. Neha sized up the
audience one last time.
Anything she said or did was being telecast real time to millions of
households around the world. Alumni from yesteryears logged in across
timezones. It was a big day for esteemed business school magazines. For
weeks, they had tirelessly created social media buzz for IIT’s convocation.
Their home pages hosted links to the live stream. IIT’s YouTube channel
got an unprecedented number of subscriptions. The live counter for the
event’s viewers ticked on rapidly. Just like Neha’s heartbeats.
It’ll all be over soon.
“It feels great to share the stage with Dean Shekhar again.” Neha wiped
her face with sweaty palms. “Alok, thanks for sharing your remarkable
story. I’ve been getting a disproportionate amount of credit for keeping IIT
safe from Red Shark.” She turned to Alok, her gaze no different from that
of the dead. “I wasn’t alone. I’m ecstatic you’re here to share this moment
with me.”
Alok’s eyes widened. His lips curled into a smile. “I wouldn’t miss it for
the world.”
“I’m sure.”
What curator wouldn’t enjoy a ringside view of a public suicide of this
scale? You’d soar to the all-time legends leaderboard of Red Shark
curators.
“Go on, we’re all waiting.” Alok’s eyes danced.
With the world watching live, you want me to outdo Fatima one last
time. Using the convocation’s global limelight. Mood M’s inauguration was
nothing compared to this.
“As I said, you praised me for keeping IIT clear of Red Shark. You
didn’t ask how I did it. Ensuring safety needs the study of two parties — the
danger and the prey. Why do you only look at the latter? The victim dies,
you mourn, and then you move on. Sometimes you do crazy things to
prevent more deaths. Breaking down latches, forced twin-sharing, buddy
reports, and so on. You fight the act of committing suicide — you focus
only on stopping the victim. In all this, you forget the other party. The
source of the danger. Remember, Red Shark is a two-player game.”
The Dean and Alok exchanged confused looks. Prof. Badami was
visibly sweating. This was certainly not on the agenda. She stood and
scampered along the length of the stage. When she was only two feet away,
Prof. Badami shot Neha a fiery stare.
“What are you doing?” She frowned. “You do realize we’re streaming
this realtime?”
“Exactly. That is exactly why I must do this now.” Neha gestured Prof.
Badami to go back to her seat near the staircase, only to watch her come
closer.
“What are you doing, Neha?” The Dean also stepped up toward the
dais.
Alok stood with squinted eyes, turning his neck this way and that,
looking for the nearest exit off the stage.
“We’re going to need you for this, Alok,” Neha said. “As I said, Red
Shark is a two-player game. I played as the victim, so I can only tell you
one half of the story. Yet, there’s a lot I don’t understand about the other
player — the curator. This is where Alok can help us fill in the gaps.”
“Stop it, Neha. You don’t know what you’re saying.” Alok was
sweating profusely.
Neha gave a thumbs up to the junior standing in the wings, who was
trembling at the developments on stage. “Go for it — play it.”
“Play what?” Prof. Reema and the Dean asked in unison.
“Are you sure?” The junior’s voice broke out at last. “You told me the
Dean knew about this!”
“I lied to not ruin the surprise.” Neha turned toward Alok. “Stand where
you are. Everyone needs to see the artist, whose art I am about to present.”
“Are you sure, Neha?” Alok asked, looking at his phone from the corner
of his eye. His stubby fingers pounced on his screen.
Remote wipe attempt? What a noob.
Neha nodded at the junior. He didn’t protest this time. It was now or
never. He inserted Neha’s pen drive and opened her presentation. The
gigantic LCD screen behind the presenters on stage went blank. The 3D IIT
logo flashing on it disappeared and Neha’s presentation replaced it.
It wasn’t fancy. A default Microsoft Powerpoint presentation template.
A plain, white slide with a sentence in a bright red font, centered at the top.
Neha read the audience’s lips as they mouthed the words.
The Origin of Red Shark in India
Neha picked up the clicker from the dais and pressed the forward button.
Alok’s mugshot photograph appeared below the words. Many in the
audience gasped. Neha crossed her arms and looked at Alok. “Let’s hear all
about it from India’s first-ever Red Shark curator.”
37
In Flames
Convocation, April 11th
Prof. Badami stormed toward the dais. Neha watched as she stood in front
of the large LCD screen. It was useless. Two of the cameras still caught
every inch of the display. With her brows furrowed, Prof. Badami looked at
the Dean. The Dean turned to face Alok. Alok’s gaze was locked on Neha.
Neha tapped on the microphone. It was still working. The cameras
pointed at her still had their lights on. Neha’s words came out as calm as the
breeze. “Fatima, your death shocked a hundred and fifty thousand. We
won’t get you back, but a million will know your story.”
“Stop this at once!” Prof. Badami looked at the crewmen and pointed at
the ones wearing IT team badges.
“Do we have clearance?” A crewman asked the leader of the IT team.
“He’s right there! Ask him,” came a voice from backstage.
“You!” Prof. Badami pointed at one of the cameramen. “Turn that off.”
He nodded his refusal.
Prof. Badami stomped her foot on the floor. She turned to the Dean.
“Why don’t you say something?”
Neha watched Dean Shekhar’s stone-cold face. His eyes lost in deep
thought, he walked up to Neha and asked for the microphone.
“What do you want me to say?” His voice was icy. “Let them do their
job.”
Goosebumps prickled Neha’s arms. She watched the color drain off
Prof. Badami’s cheeks. Alok looked like he was about to puke. Neha turned
to the Dean. A million eyes fell on him on screen, ears riveted to his voice.
“Neha, it would be an understatement to say you’re making a massive
claim. For once, my head and heart tell me to listen to you. I hope you
won’t let me down.”
“What are you doing, Shekhar?” Prof. Badami raised her hands. “You
know she’s a loose cannon. The eyes of the world are on us.”
Alok summoned his courage and rolled his dice. “Sir, she’s lying. Don’t
do this. Think of what this means for IIT’s reputation. We can have a talk in
private, I will happily clear any misunderstanding.”
“Sorry, Alok. Every time I doubted Neha, she was right. I am a logical
man. I will hear her out, and in the manner she chooses.”
“She’s lying!” Alok’s eyes burned with rage.
“It takes a liar to know one, Alok.” The Dean scratched his chin. “I see
through you like glass now. We’ve been blinded by lies far too long.”
Neha clicked and moved the presentation to the next slide.
How one man spread a viral suicide challenge in India
Alok stared at the screen and said. “IIT will go down in flames if this
continues.”
“If it must, it must.” The Dean said. “To rise from the ashes, a phoenix
must first burn.”
“Are you ready for this?” Alok loosened his tie. There was no turning
back.
“Yes,” the Dean said. “The first Indian student to die of Red Shark did
not do it in Chennai. It gives me great grief to put this on record. Fatima
was India’s first victim of the Red Shark suicide game. It happened right
here at IIT. Right under my nose. I am personally responsible for what
happened to her. But this is not an apology. Neha, I am banking on you to
do this. Let IIT be remembered as the place where Red Shark’s eradication
began.”
“Sir, I have no words to thank you.” Neha wiped her tears with the back
of her hands. She took the microphone from the Dean. “Just tell me this,
how can you be so sure I won’t kill myself in front of the world? A part of
me came here to do just that.”
“But the other part of you always wins.” Dean Shekhar smiled. “The
part of you that wants to live. The part of you everyone chose as their
President. The part of you that subconsciously wrote your end semester
papers. If you wanted to die, why would you bother passing?”
“Good for you that part of me paid attention in class. I may very well
have flunked despite wanting to live. Where I’m going after IIT, I don’t
need my scorecards.”
“Where would that be?” The Dean raised his eyebrows.
“This time you won’t be able to bail me out. I’m going to prison.”
38
World Premiere
Convocation, April 11th
It was time for Red Shark’s world premiere.
Sorry, Fatima. I outdid your reach. Smashing Mood Magenta’s
viewership needed a bigger stage.
“Alok Das is the primary curator of India’s Red Shark network.” Neha
advanced the slides as she explained.
“Hundreds of students in Russia and India are at various stages of the
Red Shark game. These are the cities with the highest density of cases.” She
made good use of the device’s inbuilt laser pointer.
“What the hell is that?” Alok scowled. “She’s made it all up!”
Neha ignored him. “Let’s have real cybersecurity experts validate that.
I’ve sent a copy of all the evidence to Inspector Kamal. It won’t be too hard
to corroborate my data with the Red Shark files with police departments in
any of these cities.”
Alok fell on his knees. It was over. “How did you get your hands on
this? You couldn’t even trace the servers where I hosted all those videos!”
“Sounds impossible for a Mech grad, eh?” Neha grinned. “It wasn’t. I
didn’t need sophisticated malware to breach your Red Shark repository. You
spoke of dismantling the backbone of suicide games. I did exactly that, with
your unwittingly given advice.”
The Dean and Prof. Badami exchanged confused looks. Neha caught
their attention and allayed their concerns with a smile.
“For laymen, I’ll make it simple. Red Shark curators use diabolical
techniques to spy on their victims. I don’t mean just their phones. A curator
takes over the player’s life. By disguising viruses and malware into
something as harmless-looking like an image or a video. It’s a technique
called steganography. The transfer of the disguised virus happens very early
on, often before the player thinks he has made contact with the curator. A
simple act like clicking on an image the curator sends from a fake ID can be
enough. An innocent-looking audio message could be a deadly virus.
Before the player can say hi to the curator, the curator has already taken
control of the victim’s phone. The experience is virtually seamless. An odd
extra second your phone takes to restart, an extra delay for an image to
download. It could be anything.” Neha paused for a breath and was pleased
to see nodding heads in the audience.
“Just tell me how you got these files?” Alok was grinding his teeth.
“You told me where technology fails, psychology opens doors. I knew
you would use your initial spyware to inject more invasive attacks. I noticed
my bank balance was off more than once. I knew my phone’s microphones
were your ears. You heard me even when I was asleep. I kept my phone
away whenever I changed. The camera lenses were your eyes. I knew you
wouldn’t stop at that. You always wanted more. I knew there was
something you wanted to see so bad, you would click on it multiple times.
Zoom into it. Cherish it over and over again. You would go on until you
devoured every pixel with your sadistic appetite. There was my opportunity
to lay a trap.”
“What did you do?” Prof. Badami asked. It was nice to see her intrigued
as the presentation advanced.
“I wrote a small script and masked it as an image. What better photo
than that of my fresh, bleeding Red Shark insignia? After I sent you that,
you sent me to Fatima’s graveyard. Meanwhile, my photo reached your
server’s deepest archives. It joined your trophies of other victims and
evidence of their tasks. My script was simple. Its only task was to replicate
every file hosted on any IP other than that of my phone. It worked like a
charm. Now we know who was the master and who was the puppet. Your
spyware worked for me. It copied all evidence to a secure server I set up
with Prof. Surendar’s help. I didn’t expect it to copy the evidence folders of
each of the other curators in India as well. That’s when I discovered you
were their leader — the primary curator. You recruited curators and
assigned them geographies to unleash their own Red Shark games with
minimal tech. You took care of the tech backbone for them.”
“Oh my god, Alok, what did you do?” Dean Shekhar buried his face in
his palms.
“He made a marketplace for suicide!” Neha said. “That’s exactly what
he did. The curators broke all rules. Some did it for money and looted their
victims, others released psychopathic desires.”
“There had to be money involved,” Prof. Badami said. “Such a shame.”
“Alok wanted to grow his network of curators at all costs. Be it
cybercriminals wanting quick money or sadistic bullies, he gamified it for
all. Creeps on the darknet also became curators. They often hacked their
victims’ bank accounts and used them to purchase cryptocurrency. Alok led
the operations thorough leaderboards and evidence archives. Everything
safe on secure darknet servers. The curators had emergency data wipe
facilities to wipe clean their victim’s phones.”
Inspector Kamal had heard enough. Neha hadn’t noticed him at the
venue before. He was in plainclothes. He climbed on stage and walked up
to Neha. “Neha, I have a provisional warrant for Alok, thanks to what you
sent my office. I’m sorry, but this show needs to stop right now.”
“That’s okay. We’ll get all the time we need in court, won’t we?” Neha
smiled.
Wait a minute, why did Inspector Kamal arrive undercover? Did he
expect this?
Neha looked at the Dean. He winked.
He had my back all along.
39
Welcome Back
Late April
“You did it, darling,” Neha’s mother said. She looked up from her
computer. “Seventeen curators got arrested last night in parallel police raids
across India. The identities of three curators operating on foreign soil have
been shared with their respective governments.”
“What took them so long?” Neha spoke with a mouthful of cornflakes.
“I gave them everything weeks ago.”
“Easy, my little hurricane,” her father said. “There’s only one of you in
the world.”
There was only one Fatima.
Nobody could change hard facts, but at least her inner voice was
returning to normal. She hadn’t texted BFW in her thoughts for days.
“Anyway, good riddance,” Neha said. “Alok was their focal point. What
luck he operated the curators’ network for India. Otherwise, we’d need a lot
more Nehas to hunt down each curator.”
Neha’s father adjusted his glasses. He leaned over to see her mother’s
computer screen. “What happened to rescued victims?”
Her mother answered. “They’re under observation. Most are in various
stages of rehabilitation, depending on the level of the game they had
advanced to. They released the fiftieth participant yesterday after she
cleared her psychiatric assessments.”
“It’s not a one-time fix,” Neha added. “They should be monitored with
periodic counseling sessions. Alok was a monster, but not everything he
said was lies. Some of his videos will haunt me forever. It’s not impossible
for rehabilitated players to fall back into the abyss.”
“Absolutely,” her father agreed. “By the way, what happened to the
money these crooks siphoned out of their victims?”
“A true banker,” Neha’s mother muttered under her breath. “The crypto
transactions could take weeks to trace, provided Alok cooperates. As for the
cash bundles the kids burned, there’s no telling how much made its way
into curators’ hands.”
“I’m just glad it’s over.” Neha’s father crunched his knuckles.
“No,” Neha said. “It’s far from over. A new Red Shark primary curator
may be lurking on the darknet. Who knows in what form the next suicide
challenge will pop up? It might not even involve money. Will the authorities
care so much then? I’ve heard suicides being called ordinary.”
“I feel sorry for Alok’s lawyer,” Neha’s father quipped. “To make things
fair, maybe they shouldn’t let a lawyer represent you.”
“I don’t need one, dad,” Neha said. “I can fight this all alone.”
“Alone?” Neha’s mother pulled her close into an embrace. “Never
again.”
40
But Why?
May
Pin drop silence filled the packed room for the post-lunch session at
Mumbai High Court. The ceiling fans were delightfully noiseless
considering how fast they spun. To be fair, even the noisiest ones would be
just as welcome. Mumbai was at peak humidity and the afternoon was
about to get hotter. Unless Alok pulled off a miracle, the most sensational
conviction in recent memory was on the cards.
The High Court judge peered over the brown rims of his glasses. “I call
upon the defendant.”
Alok was produced and took an oath of honesty before the court.
Do they still do that?
Neha shuddered in her seat. Despite the distance, his aura was chilling.
“Where are the missing currency notes?” Neha’s lawyer asked. She was
a tiny, middle-aged woman with hair dyed blacker than her faded
courthouse attire.
“Curators exchanged no cash with players.” Alok’s swollen eyes
showed no remorse. “It was against the code of conduct.”
“Even if we assume all of the ATM withdrawn cash was burned, your
network still siphoned off two-and-a-half crores and sunk them into
cryptocurrencies or dummy accounts.”
“Yeah, maybe they did it, what do I know? You have everyone’s
identities.” Alok shrugged. “Grant them reduced sentences in exchange for
confessions. It’s working pretty great for us, right?”
“We checked your financials. You took no money from any of your
victims.” Neha’s lawyer scratched her head.
“Why, thank you. That’s one less charge, then. How much does it count
toward a further reduced sentence?”
The audacity of the bastard.
Neha’s blood boiled. She wanted to ask the judge to dismiss her lawyer
and allow her to represent herself.
I could have got him hanged by now. He deserves worse.
“Objection.” Neha was surprised she said it aloud.
The judge looked at her and nodded.
“Your honor, allow me to draw your attention away from the monetary
fraud charges for a moment. We should fry bigger fish. The defendant
admits he provided the technological backbone and enabled darknet
transactions. He admitted over two crores were funneled into it. We know
what high-value unaccounted transactions mean. The defendant has
intentionally funded cybercrimes. May I request we drop the trivial charges
such as financial fraud? I humbly ask that we proceed with the charges I
have enlisted.”
“Sustained. Show me that list.”
Neha obliged. “Thank you, your honor.” She returned to her seat with a
smile at her dumbstruck lawyer.
“You didn’t debrief me about this,” her lawyer whispered.
Neha didn’t respond. The judge scanned the list and nodded. “I would
like to call the plaintiff to take the oath.”
Neha had rehearsed this moment in her head for weeks.
* * *
Over the following days, snippets of the courthouse drama made headlines
in Indian newspapers. Primetime news channels had something to keep
their viewers busy for weeks to come.
The Times of India carried an editorial by a renowned psychologist with a
major in adolescent studies.
Youngsters more susceptible to the peer pressure of gamified suicide
What does the innocent young mind know of the realities of the adult
world? With real adult experiences far away, movies fill the void and shape
their illusions. Parents, I’m sure you know this. If you tell your kids
adulthood is hell, they’ll believe it, making you a living example. If you tell
them you’re happy, it doesn’t mean they will emulate you. They want to be
like their cool friends. Even if it means doing the next outrageous fad to
stay on top of their game. It looks small at an individual level. But the scale
of social media can take that message several continents away to ignite a
spark in somebody else’s imagination. This is why you don’t see adults
undergoing midlife crises resort to Red Shark. Youngsters are far more
susceptible to psychological traps and the virality of such challenges. Too
naive to challenge their impulsiveness, they lap illusions of adulthood
misery and the noble annotations associated with suicide. They see proof —
the leaderboards glorify kids who committed suicide. Of course, it’s
branded as kids who’ve won the Red Shark game. There are no winners.
But it doesn’t matter. For the disillusioned teen, curators are mentors
who’ve seen it all. Even better, they’ve helped other teenagers escape their
misery.
* * *
“Your honor, it was never about the money,” Alok said. “I pumped the last
of my savings into this. It was nothing compared to what the players
contributed. Every rich, depressed kid whose money got sucked into Red
Shark directly helped its spread. More money allowed me to recruit more
curators and setup an unreachable system to gamify the experience for the
curators as well as the players.”
“Why was the gamification element so important?” Neha asked. Her
lawyer was asleep in her seat.
“I had to attract and retain curators, who brought in more players. I
couldn’t burn money endlessly to hire curators. Gamification is a proven
tool to drive engagement and encourage referrals. Better still, it’s cost-
effective and attracts few curators who only want to make money. I was
broke and my options were limited. Stealing from victims never appealed to
me. What a shameful thing to do after gifting them freedom! Besides, a lot
of money suddenly disappearing from the bank accounts of suicide victims
would intensify action against us. It was smarter to keep monetary
exchanges minimal. Of course, some hired curators got greedy. Yet another
reason I only wanted curators committed to the bigger cause. With enough
curators of that sort, we could pass off Red Shark as nothing more than a
viral trend for stupid youth. As long as cash was out of the picture, student
suicides wouldn’t draw too much heat.”
“What are your links to the original Red Shark game that originated in
Moscow University?”
“Absolutely none. This was my own project from end to end.”
“You mimicked the Russian version only to deflect attention. It sent
authorities on a wild goose chase, forcing them to reopen closed case files
in Russia.”
“That was the idea.”
“You did a lot more. Remotely wiping evidence further derailed the
investigation. Your malware erased every last shred of evidence from the
victim’s phone. I saw how fast it works on my own phone. My phone was
as good as new. You did it to so many others, even before the victims’
bodies were discovered. It was all set up meticulously. Why then did you
make victims brand their bodies with the Red Shark insignia? You could
have killed off so many more without raising half as much attention as you
did due to those grisly, self-inflicted wounds.”
“Who says all attention is bad? I was trying to spread my message. The
publicity helped.”
“What was your message?” Neha didn’t want to know his answer.
“You wouldn’t understand. I don’t need to explain it to the kind of
curators I like to work with. We live by this simple principle. Who cares
about mercenaries hired for money? They played their role to curate games
initially when I was expanding Red Shark’s reach. But such bought curators
were no fun. They wouldn’t fit into my long term vision. So, I turned all my
attention to the curators who weren’t in it for the money. The type of people
I wish I knew when I was suicidal. Three times! There was no Red Shark in
India back then. I had no choice and all the motivation. I would have to do
it. For the thousands of Aloks out there like me. With that in mind, I set out
to grow my network of dedicated curators. They’re nice guys. People like
you would call them psychopaths. Maybe they were. Regardless, every
single curator I hired after that was well-aligned with my message.”
“I already asked you what it was.” Neha rolled her eyes.
The judge gave her a stare.
Alok spoke to the point this time. “Helping someone end their misery
isn’t a crime. It’s a noble duty.”
* * *
In one of the High Court sessions, Neha convinced the judge to pursue a
line of questioning to unravel the finer aspects of how Alok conducted his
first few games.
“They say always start small, but dream big.” Alok sounded like he was
pitching a startup on Shark Tank. “My earlier spyware didn’t use
sophisticated steganography. I manually stalked my victims for days on
social media. I followed them around. I selected the ones I was sure were
suicidal. Basically, I looked for people who reminded me of me when I
almost killed myself. I got carried away when Neha wanted to play. I knew
she wasn’t suicidal. I guessed correctly what she really wanted to play the
game for. I had recently finished playing my game with Fatima and nailed
the leaderboard. A proud achievement, considering I get no special
treatment for being the primary curator compared to the rest. I had earned
myself a treat. Besides, what Fatima blamed Neha for her suicide. I figured
Neha deserved to know that. I broke my rule of admitting only genuinely
suicidal players. My first and last mistake.”
“After we found Akriti’s body hanging in the auditorium, you were
right next to me. IT was the first time your curator’s alias, BFW, texted me.
How did you do that? Did I have a different curator texting me from your
account whenever you were around me?”
Alok sneered. “I expected such an ugly solution from a Mech grad. Let
this one keep you guessing.”
“I’m going to put my guess on record. You used chatbots. The machine
learning algorithms trained the bots with hacked data from my emails, text
messages, reminders, social media. Shit, you could have just as easily had a
conversation with someone else on my behalf!”
Aloke broke into a proud smile.
Doesn’t he know he’s in court?
The defense attorney must have been a gentleman of immense
principles and faith in the rule of law. Nobody else wanted to represent the
defendant. It would be career suicide. Ironic, given the charges filed. He
slowly made his way to Neha.
“The defendant claims you are living proof that the game cannot kill.”
His voice quivered with authority. “The nature of the game is not lethal in
itself. There was no pressure for you to kill yourself. What concrete
evidence do you have my client is guilty of abetting suicide?”
“Red Shark had a zero failure rate until I directed the authorities to
catch potential animal abusers. It led to the capture of two confirmed Red
Shark players. They didn’t kill themselves after that, right? There was no
evidence on their phones. They were counseled before they crossed the
point of no return. Alok and the other curators clearly pushed their victims
over the line.”
“Your chat records with my client explicitly prove the opposite. There
are several instances where you said he can’t make you kill yourself. I have
no other questions, that is all. Thank you.” The defense lawyer requested
permission to take his seat, clarifying he anticipated a longer answer than
what his legs could bear.
You’re goddamn right.
“Your honor,” Neha said to the judge. “I am one of the very few who
broke free. Others weren’t so lucky. I too considered killing myself at the
convocation. I had already sent the evidence to Inspector Kamal. With
Fatima’s death avenged, I had nothing else to live for. My next move was to
swallow the poison I had in my pocket. I expected the Dean would give the
IT team emergency clearance to disable the live feed. When he didn’t, I was
astonished. The brief surprise tipped my instincts in the opposite direction.
The small part of me that still wanted to live triumphed. If the Dean could
dramatically change his stance toward Red Shark, even at the expense of
IIT’s reputation, anyone else would. It filled me with hope. I dropped the
poison on the floor. I had intended that my pen drive with the presentation
would suffice to tell my story. But the Dean’s kind act of faith ensured I was
alive and kicking to spill the beans. How can any court of law entertain the
notion that Alok wasn’t responsible for how close I was to die? He’s a
threat to society. Microsoft revoked his offer, but that won’t stop him from
building an even deadlier game. It’s the only mission he lives for. Your
honor, don’t let Alok walk free.”
41
Dream Job
June
The sentencing day arrived in record time. Intense media scrutiny and
international outrage ensured the trial spared no effort to reach a hasty
conviction.
The judge summarized the court’s findings. “The accused and his
network of curators took advantage of vulnerable youth to satiate their
sadistic, psychopathic tendencies. Large sums of money stolen from victims
made their way into darknet transactions, making this an international
cybercrime.”
Neha held Fatima’s sister’s hand. They closed their eyes, absorbing each
word of the judgment.
This is for you, Fatima.
“The design of the Indian version of Red Shark was diabolical and
highly scalable. It provided a powerful system to gamify suicides.
Onboarding new curators took as little as two days. Any individual with ill-
intent and minimal technological know-how and infrastructure could
conduct suicide challenges.”
Alok stood defiantly, stealing glances at Neha at every little opportunity.
She smiled whenever he did. She had won. Fatima had won.
The judge continued. “The primary accused confessed during the trial
that his three failed suicide attempts drove him to build the Indian version
of Red Shark for suicidal youth. His statement bears no remorse. He’s on
record stating that every life lost to the Red Shark challenge was a personal
victory. Starting solo as the primary curator, he grew his cult of curators. He
gamified the system by setting up leaderboards for curators and players.
Violent tasks and gory suicides were highly incentivized. The sheer
callousness is evident in the database of victims, disgracefully referred to as
the Wall of Fame. The court finds the accused, Alok Das, guilty on the
following counts…”
The judge enlisted the charges before dismissing the attendees for a
short break. He promised that when the session resumed, they would be in
for the long-awaited sentencing.
Neha closed her eyes and thought of Fatima.
We did it.
The charges Alok was convicted for meant even a reduced sentence for
his cooperation during the trial would be substantial. Dean Shekhar and
Prof. Badami joined Neha and her parents for some well-deserved coffee.
* * *
The judge requested for silence as the attendees returned to their seats.
“Indian law permits the death sentence for the rarest of rare cases. I have
not seen another case as worthy of capital punishment as this. However, the
accused pleaded guilty in exchange for a reduced sentence. The court has
decided to award Alok Das life imprisonment.”
A dull murmur filled the room. Fatima’s sister looked at Neha.
The Dean whispered in Neha’s ear, “We’re going to appeal. He deserves
nothing short of hanging to death.”
“No,” Neha said. “We came here for justice. Alok genuinely believes
death is freedom. Do we want to gift him freedom right after his
conviction? Let him rot in prison, unable to take another life ever again.”
Fatima’s sister nodded.
“Fair enough,” the Dean agreed.
“But wait, there’s more to come.” Neha braced herself for it.
The judge adjusted his glasses and continued. “During the course of the
trial, it has also come to light that the plaintiff, Neha Sharma, committed a
few serious offenses. She is on bail for the desecration of Fatima’s corpse.
She willingly injuring her batchmates by adding glass powder to their food.
She admitted having done it as one of her tasks while playing Red Shark.”
“I know you didn’t do it, Neha.” The Dean was dangerously close to
getting rebuked by the judge for his crosstalk.
Neha’s lips curled into a weak smile. “This isn’t the first time I’ve been
accused of stealing credit for someone else’s work. Besides, I’m going to
jail anyway.”
The Dean understood. Neha had taken one for the team. The truth
behind who really added glass powder to the meals would forever remain a
mystery.
The judge said, “The court has decided to award Neha Sharma eighteen
months for the following charges…”
After he was done, Neha hugged her worried parents. “Trust me, this is
good.”
“Why do you seem so excited about going to prison?” the Dean asked.
“Why do people fight so hard to get into IIT? For a dream job. I
couldn’t figure out what my dream job was even after four years. Maybe
eigthteen months of peace and quiet will help me discover what I want to
do with the rest of my life.”
“You need prison for that?” Her father slapped his forehead.
“Think of it as a post grad stint. It certainly can’t be worse than an
MBA.”
42
Friends Forever
Two Years Later
Six months after walking out of prison, Neha walked into her brand new
office. Small but functional, it would do until she hired any employees.
Apart from her desk and a comfortable chair, the only other furniture was a
pair of identical chairs for visitors.
Her minimalistic office smelled of freshly painted walls and varnish.
Considering her budget, she didn’t have too many other options to set up
her workplace. In truth, only the location mattered. The window behind by
her desk offered a direct view of IIT’s main entrance.
The first thing I want to see when I walk to my desk every morning.
She took a long look before getting seated and opening her laptop. It felt
great to see her brainchild of two years finally taking shape. From her first
day in prison till her last, she planned every little detail. Every day for the
six months since her release, she toiled to set this up. It was going to
consume her for the rest of her life.
I’m going to live for the both of us, Fatima. You are alive as long as I
breathe.
A knock on the door interrupted the conversation in her head with
Fatima.
“Come in,” Neha said.
It was a courier delivery man. “Package for Miss Neha Sharma.”
“Thank you, please leave it on the desk.”
“Please sign here, here, and here.”
Neha couldn’t wait to unpack the box. The first set of visiting cards for
her enterprise had arrived.
Actually, I was wrong. You’ll live long after I die, Fatima.
The visiting cards felt silky smooth to her fingers. A teardrop ruined the
first visiting card she touched. On it ran bold letters with the name of her
organization:
Friends of Fatima
It was a mission she had proudly pledged her life to.
43
Yes, You
April
Three years after attending her own unforgettable convocation, Neha was
back at IIT. This time she was the youngest ever chief guest for IIT’s annual
convocation for outgoing graduates.
On the fateful stage once again, Neha saw familiar faces in the
audience. All looked sharp in their convocation gowns. They craned their
necks to get a better look at her, swaying heavy headgears as they did. The
excitement was heartwarming. Neha recognized a handful who were
volunteers for Mood Magenta three years ago.
“Most of you will look back at your last four years at IIT as the best
days of your life. I can’t. Your journey started with a tragedy toward the end
of your first year. That was the last Mood Magenta of my campus life.”
Neha choked on tears. “Excuse me.”
She turned for a sip of water. Dean Shekar was visibly older but flashed
the smile of a man half his age. Prof. Badami sat on the chair next to his on
stage.
“I lost a dear friend, the dearest I ever had. She was full of life. Yet I
lost her in an instant. That one moment of madness. An instant that brewed
silently inside her for days. Suicide is an insidious disease. It could be
happening as we speak to anyone you know. I want each of you to write this
down: Suicide as not an incident. Taking your own life needs a process. If
you mistake suicide to be an isolated event, you make it easier to brush it
under the carpet. That is what almost happened to Fatima. It’s easy to point
fingers at stress from academics, placements, relationships, and bullying.
They’re logical methods to get closure. But at what cost? You’re
oversimplifying what actually happened. Nobody commits suicide because
of failing an exam. They do it to escape the humiliation. You fail an exam
once, but the pressure and the humiliation that follows is for a lifetime.
Easier question papers or granting grace marks won’t solve the problem. It’s
no different for failing job interviews. It’s not the pay and the fancy
designation you’re killing yourself for. You want to escape society’s
judgment. You don’t kill yourself because your partner cheated on you, you
do it because it makes you feel worthless. Fatima is here with us today in
spirit to do the opposite. Her loss will not be forgotten as a tragic incident.
She will live on with every life we save through our social enterprise. We’re
launching Friends of Fatima in sixweeks.“
A thunderous round of applause rang in the air. The large LCD screen
on stage displayed a black logo against a circular, orange background. The
thick lines were jet-black silhouettes of two girls, sitting on the jetty with
their backs touching. The remaining short, thin, black lines showed the
auditorium in the background. An evening on the jetty. The girls were Neha
and Fatima.
“Everyone panicked when Red Shark took thirty or forty students in a
day. But do you know India’s student suicide rate before Red Shark
happened?” Neha waited for an answer.
“It’s been around that for quite some time. Before and after,” a loud,
female voice said from the last row.
“Precisely,” Neha said. “What are you doing about it? A student
commits suicide in India every hour. The number of attempted suicides is
no less worrying. Truth be told, pardon my startup lingo, but Red Shark
didn’t create a new market. It simply simplified the existing options. The
harsh truth is, Red Shark’s role in increasing suicides was marginal.”
A few in the audience gasped.
“Don’t get me wrong. I’m not saying Red Shark was harmless. Fatima
paid the ultimate price to it. What I’m trying to say is that Red Sharks will
come and go, we shouldn’t be fighting them anyway. Viral suicide
challenges are only symptoms. They’re not the root problem. The root
cause is society. Me and you. Yes, you.”
A lot more in the audience gasped.
“We don’t do it intentionally. None of us wants our loved ones to kill
themselves. But we contribute to shifting their origins — I mean — moving
their goalposts. Ask yourselves if you’re demanding a little too much from
anyone, yourself included. It’s not entirely bad in moderation. After all,
dreams, ambitions, and aspirations are what we live for. But don’t forget,
we’re no more than specs of dirt in the universe. Our entire race is a mere
blip in the grander scheme of things. Our greatest civilizations mean
nothing. They were imperceptible disturbances to the universe. So what
should we do? Not much. All I ask is that we try and not make our little
time on Earth nasty for anyone. I don’t mean just the people around you, I
mean living things in general. Once you realize the bigger picture, you give
your expectations a reality check. Also, whatever you attain, you can
always strive for more. You’re always shifting your goalposts your entire
life. Remember what matters most to you today will be history tomorrow.
Before you made it to IIT, that’s all you wanted. Was your happiness for life
sealed? No! You shifted your goalposts. Now you wanted a job. you
celebrated placements as if you’d conquered life. Wait till your first day at
work. I’m not going to tell you to stop doing anything productive ever
since. That only makes you a walking dead body. Please, by all means,
chase your dreams. Moderation is the key while realizing what nothing is
permanent. You might just save yourself a lot of stress. And your loved
ones. The undue distress your create because you want something is
meaningless. Whatever you get out of it is also meaningless. Don’t be the
people who unknowingly push their loved ones over the edge.”
Neha drank half a bottle of water before continuing.
“This is what led to setting up Friends of Fatima. We will build
awareness. We will destroy suicide cults. There’s no stopping us until
suicide is a thing of the past. I know it will be a long journey. But we will
prevail. We will change the system. No victims will be blamed on the way.
It didn’t start or end with Red Shark. Every one of their curators is behind
bars. But the war is far from over. Change begins with us.” Neha turned to
Dean Shekhar. “The slightest of changes can lead to a revolution. I was
going to kill myself the moment Dean Shekhar stopped the live stream three
years ago on this very stage. But he didn’t. Something inside him changed.
It saved my life.”
Dean Shekhar walked to the dais. Neha handed him the microphone.
“How could I have been so blind? Neha was in danger the whole time.
She drank, missed classes, spoke to nobody — all the signs were there. But
I only looked at how many were dying on campus. No new Red Shark
deaths happened. I didn’t bother despite Neha being at the obvious risk of
taking her life. I thought as the adage goes: if it ain’t broke, don’t fix it.
That’s exactly the problem Neha spoke of. Don’t look at suicide after it
happens. Keep an eye out for anyone desperate for your help even if they
don’t say it. Don’t blame them after they kill themselves.” He offered Neha
to take the dais.
“Thank you, sir.” She cleared her throat. “The way we treat suicide
victims, we’re ignorant at best, arrogant at worst.”
A somber silence and stony faces showed the impact of her words.
“Let’s change that. Help our mission and join Friends of Fatima as soon
as we launch. Don’t make me gamify it to incentivize you.”
A burst of light laughter all around eased the mood.
“Well, that wouldn’t be so bad would it?” Neha’s smile had Fatima’s
mischief all over it. “It could actually work. Let’s see how much a Mech
grad can code in six weeks! We are the Friends of Fatima, and while we
live, so does she.” Neha turned to look at the logo on the LCD screen with a
tear in her eye.
* * *
Her first visit as an alumnus to IIT wouldn’t be complete without a chicken
sandwich. She went to the cafeteria and ordered a takeaway.
Next stop: jetty.
The moist wooden planks felt the same. Neha unwrapped her sandwich.
The evening sun hovered above the auditorium. The sandwich smelled just
as good as she remembered. She took a bite. Four large brown dogs trotted
toward her. It took an instant to recognize her furry companions on the jetty.
“Oh my god! Look at how big you guys have become!” She tossed them
some crumbs from her sandwich. The dogs cocked their heads and frowned.
Dogs these days! Your mother used to love them.
As if having read Neha’s thoughts, a visibly old Curie walked toward
the jetty. Neha put down her sandwich and scratched Curie behind the ear.
She reciprocated and licked Neha’s feet. Meanwhile, her half-eaten
sandwich disappeared. None of the four other dogs looked guilty.
Time for another trip to the canteen. Bread crumbs won’t do anymore.
An hour later, Neha finished saying her goodbyes to the Dean and the
professors. She walked out through the main gate of the IIT campus.
Above, the evening sky hurriedly darkened from orange to crimson. Behind
her, in the distance, the sun disappeared behind the auditorium. She licked
the last breadcrumb off her lips. A smile brightened her face.
Fatima, your death was not an isolated event. You didn’t die because I
could never be yours. You died so that we would live on forever through
Friends of Fatima.
About the Author
Jay Puranik is the bestselling author of the Letters of a Bloodline series,
with readers from over 15 countries including India, USA, UK, Japan,
Australia, Netherlands, Germany, UAE, Brazil, and Singapore. He won
Literati 2019 (South Asian Award for Microfiction). Qualified as an
Electronics Engineer, he also holds and an MBA from IIM Calcutta. Jay
lives in Mumbai with his wife, Gayatri.
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Also by Jay Puranik
Complete works available at www.writewithjay.com/books
Letters of a Bloodline - Book 0: Thicker Than Blood
Treacherous Pirates. A Pharaoh’s Secret. Your Family Connection.
What links the last Egyptian pharaoh in 360 BC to the nastiest pirates of the
1690s? The answer lies in a fiercely guarded secret chain of letters of your
ancestors. And it’s been around for five hundred generations!
You have the oldest family tradition in the world - a secret practice your
cavemen ancestors started in 13,000 BC. It’s time for you to discover the
secret history of your ancestors; in their own words. These letters bind
your bloodline with a bond thicker than blood.
Letters of a Bloodline - Book 1: Maya’s Confession
https://www.amazon.com/dp/B0856TR419
A Blind Cavewoman. The Villain of World War II. Mother’s Chilling
Secrets.
Your twenty-fifth birthday brings a strange gift. A mysterious email from
your mother with links to hundreds of letters. They’re secret memoirs of
your ancestors, passed down the generations of your bloodline. You’ve
inherited a family secret that’s fifteen thousand years old!
Absolute secrecy keeps the letters safe — and your bloodline alive. Some
letters hold shocking truths of history, unknown to anyone else. Others have
devastating secrets that reclassify humanity’s greatest heroes and villains.
Mother’s sudden disappearance leaves you desperately searching for clues
in the letters. But questions arise.
Do other bloodlines have secret letters? Will you find long-lost family
friendships forged in the Stone Age? Or expose yourself to the bloodline of
civilization’s deadliest assassins?
The Family Name (award-winning postapocalyptic short story)
This post-apocalyptic short story based on the extreme outcomes of man-
machine interdependency won me the South Asian Award for Micro
Fiction, Literati! It is available in paperback on Amazon as part of the
anthology of the finalists of Literati 2019.
